


Amber & Linen

by dinojay



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, New York City, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, fashion designer!Kurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinojay/pseuds/dinojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memory is recalled more through smell than any of our other senses. Blaine Anderson knows this better than most - he’s a soapmaker with a psychology degree, after all. It isn’t until Kurt Hummel, a fashion-designer-in-training, walks into his shop that Blaine realizes just how important scent can be. (A new love told through scents. New York future AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank everyone who has made this fic possible (/legible), particularly facethefall, dftreaper, and my LOVELY LOVELY LOVELY beta, colfer. This is technically my first ever multichapter AU (well, the first one that doesn't entirely consist of porn, that is,) so I'm rather excited and anxious to get it started! It should span roughly 13 chapters, with each chapter coinciding to roughly a month in the AU world.  
> I hope you all enjoy, and happy reading!

___________________

Chapter 1: Petrichor  
___________________

 

Kurt ran out of his apartment that morning like a man possessed, silk tie streaming behind him like the lagging tail of a kite.  
  
  
He had spent an additional ten minutes after breakfast crafting the perfect lunch for himself; crunchy foccacia which had been purchased at a discount on the second day from a bakery nearby, ripe tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil from the local farmers’ market, and a small cup of balsamic vinegar to steep into the bread once he got to his lunch break.  
  
He had spent so long enough on perfection, however, that there was very little chance he was going to get to work, let alone his lunch break.  
  
  
  
“Shit shit shit shit  _shit shit shit_ ,” he muttered as he bolted down his stairs, timing his mantra to the slap of his loafers against the cement. Slinging on his jacket as he went, President Bartlet-style, he pivoted around the bottom of the stairs and out the door, his leather bag bluntly thumping against his side as he went.  
  
His subway stop was typically an eleven minute walk away, but today he completed it in seven, wholly ignoring the defiantly uninterested stares of his fellow New Yorkers. He adjusted his outfit the entire time – tightening his tie, straightening his cuffs, his cufflinks, his brooch, the laces on his shoes. He swung into the train car with a sigh of relief, his hair mostly windblown, but the rest of his outfit no worse for the wear.  
  
Thankfully, he had twenty-five minutes until his stop.  
  
Fishing his makeup kit out of his bag, Kurt began The Process.  
  
  
  
From start to finish, The Process took precisely twenty minutes, leaving two on either side for clean-up and thirty seconds apiece for transit. Starting with primer and concealer, The Process made its way through a veritable army of products, and enough hair spray to set anyone else in his vicinity off coughing (and possibly set them at risk of spontaneous combustion.)  
  
When he emerged from the J train in Manhattan, he was flawless.  
  
When he arrived at work, however –  
  
  
  
“You’re late!” Bettinello barked gruffly, his mustache twitching in frustration. “And fix your tie, you look like a broken-necked pink bird.” He gestured to Kurt’s neck in a strange stretching motion, up and down with an open palm.  
  
“Flamingo, Dad,” Evelina quipped as she emerged from the back room, holding several yards of grey linen. She was graceful as ever, her dark hair draped over her slight shoulders. “And good morning, Kurt. Don’t listen to him on this one – I love that tie.”  
  
  
  
Kurt stroked over his tie, straightening the knot at the base of his neck to lie flat. It was hot pink with a light inner lining, the colors perfectly complementing, in his opinion, with the dark grey of his suit and the crisp white of his shirt. “Thanks, Evelina,” he said, preening over the compliment.  
  
“Too skinny,” Bettinello snorted. “A tie should be firm, a column the head may rest on.” He touched the sides of his own wide jaw, his hands moving to show Kurt the width of his chest, parallel to the lines of his tie. “Your head would topple as if on a stick!” And with that, he retreated to the back room, a string of lowly mumbled Italian following him.  
  
  
Kurt just gave a little huffing sigh, trying to ignore the curl of disappointment in the bottom of his chest.  
  
“Ignore Papa,” Evelina said, gesturing Kurt over to her work table. “He doesn't know what he's talking about, now. Come, I’ll show you how to hem a tie so it falls a little higher on your chest; it won’t crease your suit that way.”  
  
  
  
Thrusting away his frustration, Kurt instead focused on learning – Evelina was the reason he was here, after all. The younger Bettinello had been the talk of the mens’ design world for years. Armond would see how wrong he was about Kurt, some day.  
  
  
  
Some day.  
  
  
  
\----------  
  
  
  
“Kurt, we’re off to lunch,” Evelina called to him from the front of the store. He was in the back, taking stock of their fabrics on hand, running his fingers over wool, silk, linen, poplin to examine the differences in texture.  
“Sounds good!” he shouted back, checking his watch. Twelve forty-five. “I brought lunch with me, so I’ll just eat here and then walk around a little. Be back in sixty?”  
  
“Yes, of course darling! Lock up behind you!” Evelina finished, and Kurt heard the door close dully behind the father and daughter pair.  
  
He sighed in relief.  
Finally.  
  
  
  
Kurt ate his sandwich slowly, enjoying the tart of the balsamic alongside the creamy cool of the mozzarella. It was simply perfect.  
The backroom of Bettinello’s was still and quiet but for the light chirping of Armond’s bird from the next room, an exemplar of brilliant organization on pause. He licked over his fingers, dyed slightly brown from the remnants of the vinegar.  
  
Kurt resituated himself, washed his hands and his Tupperware in the bathroom sink. Grabbing his bag from behind his own work table, shunted in the back corner of the stock room, he left and locked the store, ready for thirty minutes of freedom.  
  
  
  
On the rare occasion he got a break during the day, Kurt usually chose to walk down towards Broadway, trying to bask in the variety of stores there as quickly as possible before his break was over. Today, though, he stayed close, looking through the little expensive Spring Street boutiques immediately around Bettinello’s. The sky looked like it could open up at any moment, and with his suit, he wasn’t about to take that chance.  
  
  
  
There was a store one block up he had been meaning to go in for weeks –  _Token Soap_. With its faux-wood exterior and metal accents, it stood out like a sore thumb among the smooth minimalist exteriors of the rest of the block – though admittedly a very well-designed one.  
  
A bell tinkled gently as he entered the shop, and cool air full of citrus and jasmine washed over him. The store was just full of aroma, not overpowering, but layer after layer of scent accumulated over time, complex and indecipherable. Kurt closed his eyes for a moment, taking it all in.  
  
  
  
When he opened them again, a small black mass of fur was bolting at him from under the nearest soap-laden table.  
  
  
  
“Oh, helloooo!” he cooed to the tiny Scottish terrier, whose entire body wiggling with the force of its excitement. “Who’re you, huh?” He knelt down to the small dog, scratching behind its dark ears and investigating its bright yellow collar, which only read Lemon. “You’re a real cutie, aren’t you?”  
  
It was then, finally, that Kurt heard the faint strains of music coming from the other room.  
  
  
  
 _“You think I’m pretty, without any makeup on…  
bahda ba da da, mhmm hah-m-h-m,  
I know you get me, so I let my walls come down, DO-O-OWN,”_  
  
The store was split into two segments by a slight inset, the height of the tables partially blocking the front door from view. Kurt moved towards the back of the shop, past colorful bars of soap set in patterns, towards the alluring voice singing along to Katy Perry.  
  
Behind a long slate blue countertop was a tanned man in a tight black shirt and a mustard yellow beanie, preoccupied with a long row of glass bottles against the back wall. He danced from one end of the cabinets to the other, shaking his admittedly fine ass to the beat of the song as he went.  
  
 _“Let’s go all the way tonight,  
no regrets,  
just love,”_  
  
He twisted his hips at that, shifting along to the tune. He reached up on his tip-toes and grabbed a nearly-full bottle labeled Cosmo from the top shelf.  
  
 _“We can dance, until we die,  
you and I, can be young,”_  
  
He turned, hoisting the bottle at an angle as if it was a microphone,  
  
 _“For-eeeee-verrrrrrr!”_  
  
And at that point he nearly dropped the bottle, having finally caught sight of Kurt.  
  
  
  
“Oh,” the man said, embarrassed. The song kept going without him. “Hi. Ah, sorry,” he rubbed the back of his beanie, suddenly abashed. “I get kind of into it.”  
  
“I don’t mind; you’re…you’re really good,” Kurt cleared his throat, trying not to lose his train of thought. “It’s a good thing you didn’t drop that. You would have smelled like cranberry for days,” Kurt said, hoping he wouldn’t blush.  
  
This boy’s face was warm, golden tan with honey eyes and the slightest hint of stubble.  
  
Kurt couldn’t help but smile at him.  
  
  
  
“Ah-well, I normally spill enough on myself that I smell like a walking fruit basket by the end of my shift anyway. You can never really wash it all off.” The little dog – Lemon – ran back behind the counter and pawed up the side of the man’s leg, asking for a lift. He patted it on its head instead, moving to dry off his hands and shifting into the store proper. “Now. What can I help you with?”  
  
  
  
“Oh, I’m just browsing,” Kurt said. “I’ve never been in here before – I work around the corner, at Bettinello’s.”  
  
“Oh! I’ve been there before,” the man said, laughing a little when Kurt raised his eyebrows. “I love all of your shop window displays, even though I can’t afford any of it. Your boss,” he gestured to his upper lip in what was surely a mockery of Armond’s mustache, “doesn’t like me very much.”  
  
“He doesn’t like anyone very much,” Kurt held out his hand. “I’m Kurt.”  
  
“Blaine.”  
  
His grip was sure, if a little slick from the damp rag.  
  
  
  
Kurt had met plenty of attractive men while in New York; he had even dated some of them. Nevertheless, he felt himself blushing a little, and he cleared his throat. He turned to the long wooden tables throughout the store, running his fingers over the yellow loaf of soap immediately in front of him. Blaine bent over to grab something from the lowest drawer of a cabinet, and Kurt looked away quickly.  
  
  
  
“So, you make all of your soaps in the store?” Kurt asked, trying to get his mind off of Blaine’s ass and back on topic.  
  
“Soaps, lotions, sugar scrubs, and bath oils, yessir,” Blaine straightened up with three long bottles in each hand. “All natural, great for your skin, and we can make custom products for you as well, if you want.”  
  
“No animal testing, I assume?”  
  
Blaine laughed, and bent down on one knee to ruffle the Terrier’s ears. “Nope, Lemon here gets all her own products, specially made. She’s got a skin condition, so she’s a picky little girl.”  
  
“Is she yours?”  
  
“No, she’s Stanley’s – the owner’s. Go on girl, go get your hedgehog –“  
  
And as if he’d said a magic word, Lemon went dashing off to the back of the shop, her tags jingling as she went.  
  
  
  
“So, Kurt,” Blaine stood and dusted his hands off on his knees, nonchalant. Kurt could see the slightest hints of black ink, peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his left sleeve. He tried to get a better glimpse, but stopped as soon as Blaine looked at him again. “Do you like anything you’ve smelled so far?”  
  
Kurt had been absentmindedly moving from loaf to loaf of soap, smelling at the sample bars – or at least pretending to – while he talked to Blaine. He honestly could not remember a single one.  
  
“Uh,” he said, trying to not get caught in the act, “I rather liked the clear one, the,” he glanced at the little chalkboard sign, “the white tea?”  
  
“We have that in a body lotion as well, if you’re interested.”  
  
“I like it, but I’m not certain I’d wear it, you know?”  
  
“Well then. What’s your favorite scent?”  
  
“To wear, or just in general?”  
  
  
  
“Both.” Blaine grinned, and leaned against the wooden table casually. “Often they go hand in hand; scents that have good memories attached to them can be nice and comfortable to wear, either everyday or just as an occasional scent. I want to smell like oatmeal and honey every day, but it’s a good soap for when I need to relax, since it smells like the bubble bath my mom used when I was a kid. Just like how I don’t want to smell like coffee or cake every day, but I still have a bar of Café Ole for when I need a pick-me-up."  
Lemon reappeared with a worn stuffed hedgehog the size of her head. Blaine knelt down to wrestle it from her mouth, before throwing it towards the back again. She hurtled after it, tail whipping back and forth in excitement.  
  
  
  
"Cheesecake," Kurt said bluntly. He chuckled and leaned back on one arm against the nearest table. "Or, ah, fresh laundry. Motor oil.... Stage lights. That clean, earthy smell after rain."  
  
"Petrichor," Blaine said, grinning. "Doctor Who? No? Sorry, go on."  
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow in confusion and pitched his head back, thinking. “My mother’s perfume.”  
  
“What does she wear?”  
  
“She wore some off-brand; a local perfumery used to make it, but they discontinued it. Do you guys do perfumes?”  
  
Blaine winced, apologetic. “No, sorry. We handmake our own scents for our soap, but perfumes are usually a lot more complicated.”  
  
  
  
Kurt hummed, glancing left and right along the row of soaps in front of him.  
  
“If you want, though, we do have a Petrichor soap -” he walked over to a side table, lifting a pretty white-and-blue patterned bar for Kurt to smell, “it’s technically called Rain, but it’s really Petrichor.”  
  
“What is petrichor, exactly?”  
  
  
  
“You know when it hasn’t rained for a long time, and it’s really dry out, and when it finally  _does,_  it’s just a little musky outside, but really earthy and clean, like everything’s been washed away?” Blaine held the loaf of soap to his nose, inhaling gently. “Petrichor. Coincidentally, it’s one of only three nouns in the English language that only describes a smell, rather than an object.”  
  
Kurt hummed, amused. “So that would be petrichor...?”  
  
“Petrichor, nidor, and musk.”  
  
"Hm.” Kurt glanced at him, wry. “You sure know a lot about this stuff."  
  
Blaine laughed, almost self-consciously. “Well, it is what I study. Scent memories, that is. In relation to psychology.”  
  
“That sounds...really interesting, actually. Are you still in school?”  
  
“No, just graduated a year ago in May. NYU.”  
  
“Same here, but Parsons.”  
  
“Oh man, you must be really good then - I go to y’all’s fashion design show every year! Everything is  _amazing_  - that one last year, with the gold leaf -”  
  
“Amanda,” Kurt sighed, “Such a bitch, but  _such a designer_. Mine was the one with the french wallpaper -”  
  
“The reversible patterns?  _You did those_? They were amazing!” Blaine raved, his hands rising up in excitement. “The way you did that double-sided drape -”  
  
“Oh, well,” Kurt ran a hand through the back of his hair, flustered. “Thank you. I -”  
  
  
  
Both of them jumped at the sudden outburst of noise from Kurt’s cell phone as the alarm went off, warning him that his break was almost over.  
  
“Shoot, I’d better go,” Kurt said, regretful. “But I’ll be back sometime soon - if only to hear about how great my designs are again.” He winked, then thought better of it, looking at the floor in slight embarrassment.  
  
“Anytime,” Blaine said, and winked back. “Well, as long as it’s not Thursdays - I’m off then.” He gestured to the empty store, arms wide. “As you can see, I could use the company.”  
  
  
  
Kurt was  _definitely_  coming back here.  
  
  
  
“I’ll see you then,” Kurt said, and opened the door, only to close it again quickly.  
“Shit.” he said, his mood ruined. “It is pouring out there.”  
  
“Wait, really?” Blaine quickly moved towards the back. “Hold on one sec.”  
  
He came back with a long grey umbrella with what appeared to be half a black snorkel at the top. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Kurt from the tip, “Take this. I would hate to see your linen get soaked.”  
  
  
  
“I can’t...” Kurt said, hesitating. Blaine thrust it out again and he took the handle, uncertain. “But don’t you need it to get home?”  
  
“I’ve got this,” Blaine said, ruffling his yellow beanie and the dark mass of curls beneath it. “And besides, it’s not like any of my clothes will get ruined by the rain. Take it.”  
  
“Thank you,” Kurt gripped the umbrella’s handle, touched. “I quite like that, by the way,” he said, nodding at Blaine’s beanie.  
  
“Oh, well, you know - Hufflepuff pride and all!” Blaine gestured to his black shirt, and the yellow-laced black high-tops Kurt could not believe he didn’t notice before.  
  
  
  
“I don’t know if I can talk to you now,” Kurt scoffed, affecting a posh British accent. He waved his free hand in a small flourish, showing off his outfit. “Ravenclaw.”  
  
Blaine laughed, and god, how was someone this adorable working down the street? “I hope you can get over your prejudices enough to come visit me again,” he smiled wide. “At least long enough to return that umbrella.”  
  
“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” Kurt shot back quickly, and probably a little too eagerly.  
  
“I’ll see you then,” Blaine said, and waved him out.  
  
  
  
Kurt opened the umbrella under the small overhang of Token Soap, chuckling at the goggle design sewn into the side of it.  
  
He inhaled, taking in the sweet smell of the rain and the earth beneath it, overpowering the usual city-smog-stench the street usually possessed.  
  
  
  
“ _Petrichor_ ,” he whispered to himself, smiling, and went on his way.


	2. Citrus Bergamot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who's been helping me with this fic, particularly the ever-wonderful Jenny/dahlstrom, without whom all would be lost. Happy reading!

________________

Chapter 2: Citrus Bergamot  
________________

"  
"Eighteen seersucker suits."  
  
"Yes, dear."  
  
"You want me to make eighteen seersucker suits."  
  
"For our customer, Mr. Fermouth."  
  
" _Eighteen._ "  
  
"In different colors and patterns, yes."  
  
"Why in the -  _why_. Is he secretly the mascot for KFC? Is he preparing for his upcoming battle against the North?"  
  
"He is a board member of the University of Georgia, I believe."  
  
Kurt groaned, and leaned his head back so that it hit against the wall with a dull  _thunk._  "Why?"  
  
"Because you are the grunt, darling," Evelina said with finality, and patted him twice on the shoulder. "Now get to work."  
  
Kurt sighed, and leafed through the folder of photos and measurements that Evelina had handed him. The man was broad in the stomach with a receding hairline and yeah - he guessed it – a heavy pepper-grey mustache, twirled at the ends.  
  
He fetched his Ipod and glasses out of his satchel, putting in only his left earbud and turning on Electric Guest. Tapping his foot along to the drum line, he set himself to work. He started with an elaborate to-do list, detailing each step of the process, reviewing the fabric swatches Evelina had stapled to his packet.  
  
Kurt shuddered at the sight of the red-and-black Georgia Tech seersucker, peppered throughout with little red Gs. A note in the corner read:  _please include bulldog patch on pocket._  
  
Kurt flipped to the next page, and glared at the angry-faced cartoon bulldog in front of him.  
  
“You have  _got_  to be kidding me,” Kurt muttered to himself, his eyes already strained by the yellow-blue-red-pink swatches of seersucker fabric. He closed the packet again and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, underneath the frame of his glasses.  
  
He knew that this was a great opportunity for him – that this was the first time the Bettinellos had trusted him with a project of this scale on his own, and for such a prestigious client as well. This project would likely take him more than a month to complete, without including additional fitting and tailoring. He should consider it an honor, that they thought he was ready enough to take on a project like this.  
  
But still.  
  
 _Seersucker._  
  
___________________  
  
When Kurt gathered up his things at Bettinello’s that afternoon, he felt frustrated with the world and life in general. He had made decent progress with laying out patterns and measurements against the light striped fabric, but he'd stayed in the back room the entire day, taking only a short reprieve to eat and instead working through most of his lunch break. He worked considerably slower than either of the Bettinellos, so he wanted to try and make up for lost time, to keep to their pace as well as possible.  
  
That didn’t stop him from hating  _everything_.  
  
  
  
Well, he had been fully prepared to hate everything, until he had bumped his knee against Blaine’s grey plastic umbrella on his way out the back door.  
  
  
  
He ran his fingers over the handle, considering. He had fully planned on going home and venting out his frustrations to Santana, and maybe getting a little drunk to block out the miles and miles of stripes that were rolling through his brain. But visiting Token Soap sounded like an equally good idea right now.  
  
He heard the three-toned whistle of Pavarotti in the next room, the quiet rustle of his wings. He grabbed the umbrella, and headed towards the front of the store instead, stopping at Pavarotti's copper cage. The little canary looked up at him, tilting its head to the side.  
  
“What do you think, huh?” he asked the bird, putting one finger through the bars of the cage to stroke underneath Pavarotti’s beak a little. “Should I go say hi?”  
  
Pavarotti trilled a few notes in response, and nipped at the skin of Kurt’s forefinger. Ignoring Kurt’s quiet  _tsk_  of pain, he fluttered back to his usual post in front of his tiny mirror, nonchalant.  
  
“Thanks, Pav,” Kurt responded dryly. He waved goodbye to Evelina and her two primary tailors through the glass window of her office, and headed out the front door.  
  
The sky was clear that day, the usual dust and grime of the city settled by the rainstorm of the day before. It only took Kurt a few moments to get to the front door of Token Soap.  
  
There were a few customers milling around the shop when he entered, two of whom were chatting with Blaine. When Blaine saw him, he nodded, smiling. Kurt nodded back, and began perusing the aisle, surveying the bars of soap he had been too distracted to properly examine last time.  
  
He stopped to smell several:  _Lemon Meringue, What A Sweet Pea, Cherry, Cherry,_  and  _Pina Colada_ , before he came to  _Citron et Figue_. It was a white bar with a colorful pattern of circles and teardrops on the left, meant to resemble the inside of a blood orange. In the bottom right corner, there was a small, detailed image of a mint leaf.  
  
Its scent was neither of those, though. Its primary impression was more…delicate than that. Refined, even. Kurt took it in again: there was the sweetness of figs at first, made tart by the presence of lemon. There were others, too, a deeper undertone, making the otherwise too-strong fruit scents into something complex and interesting. It was neither overtly masculine nor feminine; instead, it was intriguingly wonderful. As he lifted the bar away from his nose, he caught the final whiff of mint, smooth and subtle.  
  
  
  
“Nice choice,” Blaine said from beside him, and Kurt squeaked and fumbled for the bar in midair.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Blaine started, “I-“  
  
“You startled me,” Kurt interrupted.  
  
“Yeah,” Blaine chuckled, running a hand through the back of his curls. “I was just saying, you can try washing your hands with that if you want? To test it out on your skin? Some people have really different body chemistry, so something that smells good on a bar doesn’t necessarily smell good on them. Not that that won’t smell good on you! Just…”  
  
“That sounds great,” Kurt interjected.  
  
There was a sink on the right wall, a white porcelain bowl resting on top of a dark wood cabinet, as if it had been taken directly from someone’s bathroom and transplanted into the store front. A large oval mirror, adorned with unburnished silver filigrees, hung over it.  
  
Kurt washed his hands with the bar gently while Blaine rang up his customers; the smell blossomed as he ran it over his hands, leaving them supple and soft. He heard Blaine returning.  
  
“What do you think?” Blaine asked, after he had waved the final customers out the door.  
  
“It actually smells really good on,” Kurt said, sniffing at his wrists. “It’s fruity, but not in a teenaged girl way, if that makes any sense. It’s more…mature than that, without being old-fashioned?”  
  
“That would be the white musk,” Blaine took the still-damp bar from Kurt’s hand and held it up to his nose, inhaling. “And the amber, and tea. It’s very elegant.”  
  
“I’m normally very faithful to my standard skincare routine, but I might consider shifting it slightly for this.”  
  
Blaine grinned, his eyes creasing. “Something tells me that’s quite a high compliment?”  
  
“You have no idea.”  
  
  
  
“And I see you brought me back my umbrella?” Blaine nodded down to it, and Kurt handed it over.  
  
“Thanks again for letting me borrow it; it was kind of a lifesaver.” Kurt looked around the shop, curious. “Where’s Lemon?”  
  
“Oh, she’s hiding in the back with Stan. He’s trying to make some kind of…concoction. I’m not entirely certain. She usually stays back there with him if there are too many people out here.” He ran a hand over his bicep absentmindedly; his midnight blue t-shirt was stretched tight over the muscle, exposing the ink there. Kurt stared at it for a moment, considering.  
  
  
  
“So are you wearing [Ravenclaw colors](http://shop.pacsun.com/Mens/jeans/Dillon-Skinny-Stretch-Twill-Jeans/index.pro?pla%26XCID%3DP%3A9594813&CAWELAID=1309228986&cagpspn=pla&gclid=CMCiksvarrECFYOc7QodO2kAlA) today by accident, or were you trying to impress me?”  
  
Blaine looked down at himself, at the midnight blue of his shirt and sneakers paired with bronze jeans and a copper watch, and laughed. “If I say it was intentional, will you be impressed?”  
  
“Are you lying about that?”  
  
“How could you tell?”  
  
“Probably because you phrased it as a question. Points for good color pairing, though,” Kurt said, and winked before thinking better of it.  
  
“Well, thank you,” Blaine gave a short mock bow. “But back to the soap - how much do you want?” He grabbed the wide loaf from its place on the table and brought it with him to the back, where he picked up a large butcher’s knife.  
  
  
  
Kurt raised his eyebrows. “How much do people normally get?”  
  
“About…” Blaine moved the knife about an inch. “That much? Just a standard large bar. The cost is measured by weight.”  
  
“That sounds good.”  
  
  
  
Blaine set to work at cutting and wrapping the soap bar as Kurt meandered the perimeter of the store nearest the counter.  
  
“So, favorite Harry Potter book?” Blaine asked, somewhat out of the blue as he worked. “If you have a House, you have to have an opinion.”  
  
“Well – it depends,” Kurt said, sniffing at a soap labeled  _Bullhead._ He snorted at the overpowering musk and put it down. “The second was what really got me into the series. My mom read it with me when I was ten; she had read the first one to me, too, but I was too little to remember it. We bought the third the day it came out, and read it in the span of a week. She did all these voices for the characters; her Moaning Myrtle was so spot on, I would laugh so hard my dad would come check that we were okay.” Kurt looked away, wistful.  
  
“She passed away that December, so she never got to read the fourth book. When it came out, it was almost like a little refuge to another world, like I was getting part of her back, you know? Even though I cried when Cedric…. Yeah. It’s still one of my favorites.”  
  
  
  
“I understand that,” Blaine said, biting at his bottom lip. “The third’s my favorite. That was the first book I really read on my own, so I felt really accomplished afterward. Oh, and I loved the fifth. Anything involving the Marauders, really. I cried like a baby at the end of the seventh –“  
  
“Who didn’t?” Kurt chuckled, trying to lighten the mood again. There was a bit of an awkward pause, the conversation stilted. He cleared his throat and tried to get it started again by asking, “What were your other favorite books? From when you were little?”  
  
“Oh man, you just opened a can of  _worms_ ,” Blaine said, pausing in his soap-wrapping. “Shoot. Give me a second. Lemony Snicket.”  
  
“Yes. I want to murder Jim Carrey for massacring what could have been the greatest film series of my  _life_. And for a lot of other things, but mostly that.”  
  
“I was so  _angry_  about that – why did they try and jam all three books into a single movie? They could have made  _twelve_  and I would have watched  _all of them_. I hate how it ended, though."  
  
  
  
"Okay. Artemis Fowl?” Kurt asked.  
  
“I’m pretty sure I could still translate the fairy language,” Blaine said as placed the soap on the checkout counter, and sat up on the table adjacent. “I didn’t even use the internet to figure it out. I was  _very_  proud of myself.”  
  
“Oh, I used the internet, and was proud of it,” Kurt laughed. “Holly was one of my favorite characters of all time, though. I did a whole line of designs for her once, as a fun side project. There were a lot of gun holsters involved.”  
  
“Young Wizards?”  
  
“Eh, I liked it, but I never got past the second one. His Dark Materials?”  
  
“Ditto for that one. It was way too complicated for my sixth-grader self.”  
  
Kurt smirked. “What, was the rampant disproval of religion too much for you?”  
  
“Yeah, when I was twelve! Any kids book that uses the word ‘alethiometer’ isn’t a kids book. I needed a dictionary for it.”  
  
“But that was part of the fun!” Kurt said enthusiastically, slowly pulling out his wallet. “Though admittedly, those books were better to read when I was older. I missed a lot the first time I read them.”  
  
“I was more of a Narnia kid myself.”  
  
“There was too much Christianity for me in those books, though I appreciated the films –“  
  
  
  
There was a cut-off shout from the back room, and a sudden plume of pungent smoke, heavy with the smell of citrus. Lemon came running out, sneezing every few steps. She was followed by a bald, bespectacled man wearing an obnoxiously bright patterned [dashiki shirt.](http://bohemiangroovebazaar.com/RETRO-PLUS-Hippie-Boho-Mandala-India-Dashiki-Top-GREEN-3X-P164188.aspx). Kurt stared on in abject horror, more at the shirt than at the smoke. Blaine hid his nose in the crook of his elbow, coughing at the strength of the smell.  
  
  
  
“Stanley, what the  _hell_  –“  
  
“There was a problem with the citrus bergamot. We should probably evacuate the building. Just in case.”  
  
“Just in case  _what_ , Stanley,” Blaine furrowed his eyebrows at the slow creep of saffron tinted smoke coming from the back room.  
  
“Just in case someone calls the cops on us again. Here, take twenty dollars, you go get some coffee, I’ll turn on the fans, we were never here.”  
  
  
  
Blaine shot a glance at Kurt, who was still fixated on Stanley’s shirt, with something akin to pain etched on his face.  
  
“Kurt, you wanna go get some coffee while Stanley cleans out this mess?” Blaine reached below his counter and pulled out a thin leash, hooking it onto Lemon’s collar. She rested her head against Blaine’s ankle, sneezing at regular intervals. “Stanley’s buying.”   “Sure,” Kurt absentmindedly agreed. The shirt honestly looked like it had fallen out of the seventies, rejected by time itself.   
  
 “Sorry, Scooby Doo,” Stanley said, reaching into the tucked-away supply closet to pull out a standing fan. “The price of greatness, and all that.”   “Don’t call me that. I’m taking your dog.” Blaine made for the door, leash in one hand and Kurt’s soap bag in the other, Kurt trailing behind him.   “Bye, Scooby!” Stanley shouted as the door shut firmly behind them.  
  
  
  
Once the atrocity of a shirt was out of his line of sight, Kurt snapped back to himself. “So where are we going? And why did he call you Scooby?”  
  
“He calls me Scooby because he knows how to get on my nerves. And to get coffee? This happens about twice a month or so. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to just leave and not ask questions.”  
  
“But I didn’t pay for my soap!”  
  
“Don’t worry about it. Consider it a refund for the inconvenience of being run out of there by my crazy boss." He winced, apologetic. "Sorry again."  
  
  
  
They continued walking down Kenmare Street and up Mott, in the opposite direction of the Starbucks Kurt usually frequented. The store they came to was small and crowded, and Kurt peered through the large windows to see exposed brick and French molding on the ceiling.  
  
“What do you want? You can just sit tight out here with Lemon, and I’ll be right back, if you don’t mind,” Blaine handed over her leash, and she wound around Kurt’s ankle once.  
  
“A grande nonfat mocha would be great, thanks,” Kurt said, and Blaine went inside, lost almost immediately in the crowd of hipsters.  
Kurt sat on the low white bench directly outside, petting Lemon absentmindedly. Did it count as a date if he only invited you out to evade toxic smoke?  
  
  
  
Lemon hopped up next to him, her small body fitting squarely on the bench as she laid down. Kurt wasn’t normally a dog person. Finn had attempted to convince Burt to get a Labrador once, back in high school, with assurances that he would take care of it. Carole had bought him a goldfish instead, telling him that if he did okay with it, they would consider getting a dog. “Jon Bon Jovi,” as Finn had dubbed him, ended up in Kurt’s room within two weeks.  
  
Dogs were slobbery. Dogs shed. Dogs chewed up loafers and played tug-of-war with expensive ties.  
  
  
  
But Lemon was a little sweetheart, resting against Kurt’s thigh, her tongue lolling out in a happy grin. Kurt people-watched with her, and their eyes followed the variety of New Yorkers leaving the shop: the men with beards that could nest small animals, the neon print of one woman's dress. Blaine came back through the door a few minutes later, clutching a coffee in each hand and a small bag in his teeth. He handed one cup to Kurt, and sat beside Kurt so Lemon was nestled between them.  
  
“Sorry I kind of dragged you out here – I realized when I was inside that I never quite asked.”  
  
Kurt waved it off, scoffing. “No, of course I wanted to come. I was just wondering – that happens often? Isn’t that, like, a fire hazard?”  
  
“Stanley is a walking fire hazard, in more ways than one,” Blaine snorted. He took a sip of his coffee and sighed in relief. “At least this time it was just bergamot – you should have smelled the last time. Patchouli explosion. I smelled like a Pier 1 Imports for days. My roommate started spraying me with Axe because it smelled better than the hemp bonanza that was going on.” Blaine’s hands moved expressively as he spoke, his coffee jostling with the motions.  
  
  
  
Kurt took the top off his drink and sipped his mocha – it was rich like melted butter, smooth and thick. The chocolate was sweet against the bitter spiciness of the espresso. He closed his eyes and gave a small hum of pleasure, running his tongue over his upper lip to remove the whipped cream there.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Blaine quickly looking away, a light blush on his face.  
  
  
  
Lemon climbed up onto Blaine’s lap, sniffing at the brown bag in Blaine’s hand.  
  
“Oh, here you go, girl.” He opened the bag and retrieved a soft dog biscuit, deep tan and drizzled with some kind of dark icing. Kurt watched as Blaine broke up the biscuit, feeding it to the little terrier piece by piece.  
  
Kurt couldn’t help being drawn to Blaine, the gentle way he scratched under the little dog’s chin, the relaxed smile that seemed perpetually on his face.  
  
“We come by here once a week or so,” Blaine said, peacefully breaking the silence. “Stanley sometimes gets really deep into his soapmaking, and doesn’t always…remember things. Like taking Lemon for walks further than the little yard next door. I’m happy to do it; it gets me out of the shop for a while. It can get kind of empty in there during the morning.”  
  
“I understand that,” Kurt said, taking another sip of his coffee. “I generally work in the staff room, so I don’t get a lot of interaction with customers – they mostly go to Armond or Evelina. So I’m usually stuck in the back working a sewing machine by myself all day.”  
  
  
  
“Well,” Blaine said, dusting his hands together to rid them of crumbs, and taking another sip of his coffee, “I’ll happily be your lunch buddy if you want!”  
  
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” Kurt said, looking over at him with a small smile. Blaine returned it, his hazel eyes shining.  
  
  
  
“So,” Blaine abruptly clapped a hand on his copper-clad knee. “Favorite Harry Potter character. Go.”  
  



	3. Matcha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank the whole gambit of babes reading over this for me, who make me sound at least halfway coherent - thank you, thank you, thank you. Special props this week to bellatriamusica, who beta'd despite the fact that it's _glee fanfiction_.

_________________

Chapter 3: Matcha

___________________

  
Blaine scooped three teaspoons of matcha powder into a white pyrex bowl, humming along to the soft music in the background as he went. He poured in the warm water gradually, trying to stir the matcha into an even paste, the way Mike’s grandmother had taught him.  
  
  
  
Blaine had hated Sundays when he was younger. Sundays meant early morning church services, sitting docilely on hard wood for an hour, trying to keep as still as his father. He loved the clothes, of course – the bowties and Brooks Brothers boys, worn happily and without argument. But he fidgeted at his grandparents’ house afterwards, as his grandfather talked even then about how happy he would make some girl someday. He had the same Sunday, week after week, for nearly fifteen years. (Though their sudden halt felt almost worse, a wound Blaine was still trying to ignore.)  
  
Sundays in college meant work, the assignments that had piled up or been forgotten in the festivities of the weekend. Sunday meant hangovers and group project meetings and late nights when Microsoft Word was his only companion.  
  
  
  
Now, Sunday mornings were a refuge. Token Soap opened late on Sundays, and closed early, so Blaine had three hours more than usual to wake up. It was freeing, to have a few hours with nothing he needed to do, to just take some time for himself.  
  
“Hey Mike,” Blaine shouted out to the rest of the apartment, leaning against the kitchen counter and continuing to stir. “We’re almost out of matcha – whose turn is it?”  
  
“Uhhh,” Mike emerged from his room, trying to dry off his hair with the damp towel around his neck. “Yours, I think. I got the last time, and the time before that it was in that package from my mom.”  
  
“I’ll stop by Kiwi’s on the way home then – do we need anything else?” Blaine opened the fridge to retrieve a bag of ice, scooping handfuls of it into the waiting blender. “I was going to grab some veggies, maybe make a mixed grill for tonight or something.”  
  
“Don’t count me in on it, I’m going over to Tina’s tonight,” Mike rubbed at the back of his head, distinctly not looking at Blaine’s smirk. “The studio’s closed tomorrow so they can fix the A/C. Finally. Get some of that good ginger dressing, though! And some cucumbers. Mmmm, cucumbers.” Mike got a distant, far-off look at the mere mention of them.  
  
“Hummus?” Blaine asked as he added his soymilk to the blender.  
  
“Yeah,  _hummus_.”  
  
“I mean, do you want me to buy hummus?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah.”  
  
  
  
“Watch your ears,” Blaine said, as he started up the blender. The frothy green mixture churned up immediately, thickening.  
  
“I still can’t believe you massacre your tea like that,” Mike scoffed loudly over the screech of the blending ice. “Lao Lao would box your ears if she knew you were abusing her green tea knowledge by making  _iced lattes_. It’s like sacrilege.”  
  
“They’re delicious,” Blaine said, halting the blender and popping the top off to take out a spoonful, licking the spoon clean carefully. “What your grandmother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”  
  
“She is  _totally_  going to blame me when she finds out.”  
  
“She lives in Guangzhou, Mike. She’s not going to find out.”  
  
“Dude, you’ve met my grandmother. She’s like, the cutest little old lady on the outside, but the woman is _psychic_. I told you how she bought me tap shoes –“  
  
“On your fifth birthday, yeah, man, that’s your favorite drunk bar story. I’ve heard it like a million times.” Blaine started pouring the frothy green mixture into his nalgene bottle, ignoring Mike’s grimace of disgust. “How you still manage to get girlfriends despite telling stories at the bar about your _grandma_ , I’ll never know.”  
  
“Hey! I’ll have you know that girls love that story.” Mike stopped, smiling bashfully. “Well, Tina does at least.”  
  
  
“You really like her, don’t you?” Blaine asked softly, taking a sip from his latte.  
  
“I think I love her,” Mike said, returning his gaze. He bit his bottom lip, trying to keep his grin from overtaking his face. “She’s the one, man.”  
  
  
  
Blaine had known that already, of course. Since Mike and Tina had met a year ago, at a weeklong summer camp for Asian kids, he hadn’t stopped talking about her. Or mooning over her. Or making inappropriate noises with her in the middle of the night that left Blaine thumping on the wall separating their bedrooms. But that didn’t stop him from smiling like a loon now, leaving his latte on the counter to wrap up his best friend in an embrace.  
  
“I’m really happy for you, man,” Blaine said against Mike’s chest, thumping his hand against his back. Mike hugged him back hard, grasping him around the waist and into the air for a moment before they broke away. “For the record, I really like her too,” Blaine finished, giving a final pat to the place over Mike’s heart. “She’s a good one. If only because she made us all this sweet furniture, and I would honestly cry if you guys broke up and she carted it all away.” He pointed at Mikes face, mock-serious. “So you treat her nice, okay? I love my couch. I’m not giving it back.”  
  
  
  
Tina was a rising senior industrial design student at Pratt, focusing on furniture design. She had made the sleek, black modular furniture that now adorned Blaine and Mike’s apartment, from their shifting kitchen cabinets to their coffee-beer-pong table to the fold out couch Blaine _adored_. Each was an individual piece, with dynamic parts that would move and shift to make storage space or collapse for the occasional house party. They had originally been meant for her junior design show, but they had been brought to Mike and Blaine’s apartment afterwards, to replace the ratty thrift-store furniture and lawn chairs they had been sitting on for three years already.  
  
  
  
Blaine and Mike were both pretty peaceful guys; they existed in perfect symbiotic harmony. But if they were ever going to get into a fight, it would be over that furniture.  
  
  
  
“Alright man, I’d better get changed and get going – we’re going to have lunch over at Amelia’s. Make sure you wash all of that stuff out of my blender – I do not want to taste honey soymilk green tea in my next veggie protein shake,” Mike said, sticking out his tongue.  
  
“ _Please_  don’t remind me that you make those green spinach carrot and whey monstrosities in the same blender as my beautiful lattes, thanks,” Blaine called back, grimacing. Mike was a professional dancer and choreographer, who already co-lead a troupe despite only being a year out of college. The things he consumed for training purposes were nothing short of rank.  
  
Blaine was finished pouring the rest of his iced green tea from the blender into a large plastic pitcher when Mike emerged from his room again. “See you later, man!” he called, and Blaine waved him out the door.  
  
  
  
He collapsed onto their black-and-teal couch when he was done, sighing in comfort and sipping from his nalgene bottle. He had another ten minutes before he had to leave for work, and he just gave himself some time to think. Turning the music up on his laptop a little louder, he harmonized along absentmindedly as he gazed out his window.  
  
 _She drives a vegetable car  
Diesel Mercedes, green, two door,  
I barely know who you are  
Lisa Loeb glasses, I’d sure like to ask you to stay_  
  
He hummed along with the bridge, turning his thoughts over in his head. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Mike and Tina’s relationship, really. It was just that he was  _totally jealous of Mike and Tina_. There was really no getting around it.  
  
Blaine had always been a big romantic, despite how it completely and totally destroyed any and all “hipster cred” he might have. He still cried along with Emma Thompson during Love Actually; he still wanted to meet someone on top of the Empire State Building; he still spent the occasional night with his right hand, thinking of being in the backseat of that car with Leo (except not on the Titanic, because that would be _awfu_ l.)  
  
He had dated before, sure. He crushed on boys in his classes and sometimes took them out to dinner, and sometimes took them further than that. There were three boyfriends, all of whom he had liked. Some of whom he had loved. None that had really loved him.  
  
So here he was, 22, out of college, working at a soap shop, with the whole city of New York before him and no one beside him.  
  
It was  _kind of a morose thought_  for a Sunday morning.  
  
  
  
Blaine ran his fingers over his left bicep, tracing the raised lines of ink there. The whorl of the camera’s lens, the curve of the harp, the echoing convex exterior of the compass, each intertwined and arching across his arm and back to his shoulder blade. He pushed his sleeve up with his free hand, to expose the tattoos more fully. Each felt like an extension of his skin, like they were meant to be there all along. He traced the bare curve at the top of his shoulder, void of any demarcation.  
  
It felt empty. It felt like something was missing there, absent from his own body, but he still couldn't tell _what_. It was endlessly frustrating.  
  
  
  
He let his mind drift, distancing himself from the negative, inhaling the scent of matcha and honey from his latte instead.  
  
Matcha was one of those scents that was almost impossible for Blaine to get right. He only drank green tea on rare occasions as a child, when visiting his grandparents in Cebu, or when his mom was feeling nostalgic for their company. He hadn’t been close to them at all, but the scent still reminded him of  _family_.  
  
Honey did, too, but in a different way. He remembered his mom bringing him lemon honey tea when he was sick, to soothe his throat. Cooper had done so, too, years later, when his mom was away on business. He had emptied nearly half a bottle into the small cup of tea, and when Blaine had took his first sip he nearly spat out the plastic-y sweetness that invaded his tastebuds.  
  
  
  
He stood up, and started to gather his things. It was still sunny outside, light streaming into the apartment across the wood floors, and Blaine was glad for the extra time he had to get to work.  
Their apartment was on the third floor of their red brick building, in the middle of the hall. Mike and Blaine had moved there together at the start of their sophomore year, and had presented the landlady with regular tithes to keep in her good favor. It was on a tree-lined street in Bushwick, just a few minutes away from the Chauncey Street Station.  
  
Blaine relished the trip for once, his morning walk calm and leisurely. Thankfully, he had given up on shellacking his head with gel when he entered college, so he didn't have to worry about it being destroyed by the heat and humidity. He kept his hair short and curly instead, and though it threatened to frizz in the sunlight, he ducked into the subway station and hopped on his train before it had the chance.  
  
  
  
He loved the trip over the Williamsburg bridge, even though he took it every day to get to Manhattan. It always seemed as if the East River could rise up and swallow them like a great dragon, stretching out beneath the bridge, the glint of its sea-green scales the only indication of its presence. New York itself was a conglomeration of monsters, living and breathing, and Blaine felt like one of the Wild Things.  
  
He had his headphones on, despite how it ruffled his hair, just to keep out the exterior white noise of the train car. The Staves'  _Motherlode_  album had been his most recent companion, and despite their folk harmonies, Blaine cast their sound upon the city.  
  
  
  
The train arrived at Bowery twenty minutes later, but Blaine kept his headphones on for the short walk to Token Soap. He was so distracted by the music, though, that he passed Mulberry Street and the storefront altogether.  
  
He only realized his error when he looked to his left and found himself standing in front of Bettinello's, where a very nice looking backside was pressed against the window.  
  
He started again when he realized it was  _Kurt._  
  
  
  
Kurt was in the window display, facing away from him, straightening the suit of an impeccably dressed mannequin. Blaine could tell just by looking that it was one of Kurt's designs - the ethereal quality of the heather grey fabric, and the asymmetrical cut of the lapel, were dead giveaways. Blaine had only seen a few of Kurt's designs, the most recent pages of the sketchbook Kurt always kept with him, but the style was clear and unmistakable.  
  
Before he could move to knock on the glass, Kurt turned, and Blaine could see his sharp inhale of surprise through the glass. When Blaine waved at him bashfully, he raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to come inside.  
  
  
  
The bell tinkled over his head as he entered the pristine white interior of Bettinello's, feeling woefully underdressed in his blue jeans and black v-neck tee. He tried his best to avoid stepping on the obviously expensive rug. Kurt himself was wearing a pristine white pressed shirt with red suspenders and charcoal pants.  
  
"Hey stranger," Kurt said, stepping down from the display front. "How's it going?"  
  
"Just stopping by; I've got a late start for work since it's a Sunday." Blaine tried to ignore awkward stares of the three women at the back. The tallest of them, high-cheek boned and refined, was looking at Kurt with a wry smile on her face.  
  
"Who is your friend, Kurt?" she asked, her Italian accent heavy but elegant.  
  
"Blaine. Blaine Anderson - I work down at the soap store on Mulberry." Normally Blaine was great at meeting new people, but the awkwardness of his entrance, and the intensity of this woman's personality was unnerving.  
  
"And why are you gracing our store with your presence today?"  
  
"Uhhh - I…."  
  
"I see," she said, sly. "Well, don't let us stop you." She gave a little wink at Kurt, and walked with her two companions towards the back, carrying a stretch of fabric between them.  
  
  
  
"Just be glad Armond isn't here," Kurt smiled. "He's much more intimidating."  
  
"Uhhh…" Blaine said, still grasping at straws, trying to make himself sound like something other than a _complete lunatic_ who had come in for  _no reason whatsoever_. "I was wondering…ahh…when you got off today? My roommate is ditching me for a weekend with his girlfriend, so I'm looking for a dinner buddy, since I get off early."  
  
"Oh!" Kurt look surprised, and he flushed a light pink. "I get off at five? Does that work?"  
  
"Yeah, that's perfect!" Blaine gave an internal fist-pump, victorious at not making a fool of himself. "The front closes at five, but I have to do final close tonight, so it'll take me just a little big longer. Do you like, uh…" Blaine scoured his brain, trying to think of something good and affordable nearby - payday wasn't until next Friday. "Cuban?" he asked hesitantly. "Pipo's Café is just a few blocks towards Prince street, and they're pretty good!"  
  
"I don't think I've ever eaten Cuban food before," Kurt nodded, thinking. "Sounds interesting, though. And my roommate's out on a business trip with her law class for the next week, so I'm sans one dinner buddy. Count me in." He grinned, bouncing back on his heels a little.  
  
"Uh - Can I get your number, so that I can text you when I'm done?" Blaine asked. Kurt turned to glare at the tittering women in the back room, his face flushing a little brighter. "Of course," he said firmly, and Blaine quickly fished his phone out of his pocket.  
  
"It's 419-555-8341," Blaine typed in the whole number before realizing just what Kurt had said.  
  
"Wait…419?" he asked, surprised. "You're from Ohio?"  
  
"What?" Kurt looked baffled. "Uh, yeah, why?"  
  
Blaine grinned and quickly typed out a text to him.  
  
 **At 11:53 am  
From: Unknown  
  
It's Blaine :D**  
  
Kurt's phone vibrated once, and he pulled it from his pocket. "Wait, 614…isn't that?"  
  
"Westerville!" Blaine answered excitedly. Blaine had only ever met one other person from Ohio while he was in New York, and that was Tina.  
  
  
  
Kurt looked over Blaine again, from his loose curls down to his grey chukkas with his tattoos in between. "I have to admit, I can't imagine you being from Ohio," Kurt said, and Blaine couldn't tell if it was an insult or a compliment.  
  
"Well, I was born in Seattle originally, but I grew up in Ohio, if that explains anything," he chuckled. "Though, to be honest, you don't much look like you're from Ohio, either."  
  
"Thank you," Kurt said primly. "I would have been offended as a designer if you said otherwise."  
  
"What, flannel isn't a good look for you?"  
  
"I didn't say that," Kurt replied snidely. "As my high school classmates could tell you, I am perfectly able to rock the flannel, but  _why would anyone want to_."  
  
"Truth."  
  
"Aren't you breaking some sort of hipster code by disavowing the wonders of flannel?"  
  
"Okay, first off, not a hipster," Blaine held up a hand in protest. "I'm not going to be appearing on the front page of Halloween or Williamsburg anytime soon. And second, while flannel makes sense for workmen in Ohio in the winter, it certainly doesn't in New York in July. And that is a fact."  
  
Blaine's phone gave a little blip.  
  
  
  
 **At 11:59 am  
From: charlotte  
  
where are you stanley is here and hes wering his wolf shrt**  
  
And, a second later,  
  
 **At 11:59 am  
From: charlotte  
  
hes trying to give lemon a pep talk nd hes lighting incense. GET HERE QUICK!!!! b4 he breaks out the greatful dead and vaporizers**  
  
"Shoot, I gotta go," Blaine said apologetically. "Stanley's on one of his motivational pep talk moods and I'm already late. I'll text you about dinner, though?"  
  
"Sounds great," Kurt said, as Blaine's phone blipped again.  
  
  
  
 **At 12:01 pm  
From: charlotte  
  
scooby doo where r u**  
  
"That's my cue," he said, readjusting his bag and heading for the door. "See you in a bit!"  
  
Kurt smiled, all of his teeth showing for once, and gave him a little finger-wave in return as he walked back out into the Sunday sunlight.  
  
  
\----------  
  
  
"So, Scooby Doo, what made Mister Punctual late today?" asked Charlotte, smirking from her place in front of the glycerin heater.  
  
Charlotte was Blaine's co-manager at Token Soap, and was easily one of the most interesting people he had ever met. Fierce and curvy with a bright green lazy Mohawk, Charlotte was still an anomaly to Blaine. While Blaine was a people pleaser, happy making people happy, Charlotte was the rare type of person who knew how to make  _herself_ happy in life without catering to the opinions of others (or being a complete dick about it.)  
  
Though she was a _total_ dick sometimes.  
  
Like how she had called Blaine "Scooby" since he "solved the mystery of the disappearing sink" during his first week at Token Soap. (It was another employee, a dreadlocked stoner named Scratch. Blaine still felt guilty about getting him fired, even if he was dumb enough to steal a sink from the  _front display of a soap store._ )  
  
"I ran into a friend," he replied nonchalantly. Naturally, Charlotte called his bluff.  
  
  
  
"Oooh, a _friend_  eh?" she clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth, her septum piercing scrunching up with the movement. "You haven't had any _friends_  make you late in over a year. Deets, deets, you saucy minx!" Alex, the Marymount freshman who worked the register on weekends, giggled at this, and Blaine glared at her. Charlotte headed towards the back room with her two full buckets of molten glycerin, and Blaine followed dutifully.  
  
"I know you won't believe me," he started with a sigh, "But this one is actually a friend. You know Kurt, the guy I've been hanging out with on lunch breaks?"  
  
"The one with the hair?" She gestured a swooping motion with her elbow before setting the two buckets down on the back counter, and retrieving several rectangular Tupperware containers from the racks. "You should tap that, short stuff. He'd be down, if you know what I mean," she said, waggling her eyebrows.  
  
  
  
"No, you - I mean, ugh. It's not like that. I mean, I barely know the guy, Charlotte!" He grabbed the second bucket and moved it to his side of the counter opposite her, where two mixing bowls were already waiting for them. "It's just nice having someone to talk to who isn't, like, from college and knows all my dirty secrets, or from work and _wants_ to know all my dirty secrets."  
  
"You have dirty secrets?" she asks with a mocking gasp, and he pouted at her, eyebrows furrowed.  
  
" _You know what I mean._  It's nice meeting new people! We've only gotten to talk for - oh, I don't know, maybe five hours total ever? - but we get along pretty well, for two strangers who just met randomly. He's kind of fascinating. I just wanna get to know him, that's all. As friends. As friends," he emphasized when she snorted loudly at him.  
  
  
  
Blaine reached up to grab the muted lime green dye and the premixed Verbena fragrance, handing them off to Charlotte before grabbing the Vanilla base for himself. "All I'm saying is, you know how bad I am at romance. It's like a train wreck in slow motion, or a nickelback concert, or a chef on Kitchen Nightmares. I don't want to ruin another friendship by falling head over heels for some guy who doesn't see me that way, and build it all up in my head, only to have my heart ripped out in the middle of Grand Central Station."  
  
"Okay, you really need to stop holding a grudge about that," she said, stirring the fragrance in and leaving a green scent in the air. "For the last and final time,  _I thought you were joking._ I didn't think you'd actually try and serenade that Jeremiah kid in the GCS. And I did bring you Ben and Jerry's afterwards."  
  
"And when I do get guys that are interested in me," Blaine continued, ignoring her, "they end up being complete and total douchebags who are only out to sleep around, because they have a infidelity kink or something considered equally dickish by ninety-nine percent of the population that has a conscience."  
  
"Okay, you know what?" Charlotte said firmly, stopping her stirring for a minute. "You are twenty-two, Blaine Anderson. You don't need to be stirring up some great romance or trying to woo somebody like Matthew McConaughey in a romantic comedy, and you sure as hell don't need to sound so morose about not finding the love of your life at age twenty-two. You should be out having fun, dating around because it's fun to date people, not because you're looking for your perfect glass-slipper wearing prince. You fuck up romances at our age. It's a natural occurrence. Making dumb mistakes doesn't make you a eunuch for life. It makes you a fucking human being. Stop beating yourself up about it, for chrissakes, and have some fun already. That's how you meet people. That's how you fall in love."  
  
  
  
"Well, that's what I'm doing," Blaine said firmly, stirring a little harder in his frustration. "I'm not jumping into anything because I'm trying a different method, okay? None of this pining from afar, but no serenades to people you've met once either. Just meeting new people and seeing where it leads."  
  
"But you can't deny you want it to lead to the bedroom," Charlotte said slyly, raising your eyebrows. "You wanna see what those designer hands can do, so to speak. Or if his legs are as long as they look. No lie."  
  
"I mean, yeah, he's really cute, okay? I am just decidedly not thinking that way. I'm just going to make everything go down in flames if I do. Good things come to those who wait, right?"  
  
"Those who wait also have their interests snatched up by new boyfriends," Charlotte said dryly.  
  
  
  
"Technically, I don't even know if he's gay. Or if he has a boyfriend right now. Besides, I've learned my lesson with the whole jumping-into-dating thing, Char. Even the most normal looking person could have a collection of Precious Moments figurines embalmed in formaldehyde, or could be a fanatical Beiber groupie, and you'd never know until the most awkward possible time, like when they're meeting your boss. Don't deny it; you've had some winners, too."  
  
"Yeah, but just because you've dated some shitty people doesn't mean you should stop entirely."  
  
"I'm not stopping," Blaine said firmly. "It's early yet; I'm letting it steep."  
  
  
  
They fell into a working silence then, as they busied themselves with their soaps, the hum of the electric mixers filling the shop.  
  
While making soap, Blaine always tried to make certain that the scents they were mixing wouldn't clash or aggravate the senses. The lemon verbena Charlotte was mixing was strong and overpowering, and Blaine understood why it was thought of as divine in ancient times. The Devil's Bane, the Tears of Isis, "the only scent that can be smelled above the scent of horses and courage," according to Faulkner. Blaine had devoted a significant portion of one of his papers to the plant, on how certain smells were associated with particular colors.  
  
Lemon, of course, was a bright yellow, and grapefruit was pink; most fruits were mentally linked to their original color, just as Tabasco sauce made people think of red. Liquorice and motor oil were black and slick, and granulated sugar was a creamy yellow like cake batter.  
  
But verbena was green, green, green, bright as anything, like spring come early.  
  
It matched the creamy white of his vanilla soap and the scent melded with it, smoothing out across the room. Blaine grabbed a rectangular Tupperware from the nearby rack, and moved to grab a long oddly shaped pastel bar of soap.  
  
Blaine enjoyed making patterned soaps, because it required an element of pre-planning and forethought that he hadn't imagined necessary, but that stretched his brain in the best of ways. To make a rectangular loaf of soap, with a design clearly visible in every cut, Blaine needed to design in three dimensions.  
  
Soap bars had to be designed from the inside out. For a rectangular loaf, the interior components of the bar have to be designed to extend the full length of the bar. In this case, the cupcake design on the front of the bar was dragged back and extended to the length of the Tupperware, forming a strangely long shape the length of the Tupperware with a flat bottom and a raised, mock-frosting top.  
  
Blaine first laid down a layer of vanilla soap as a base into the new Tupperware, then submerged the solid cupcake bar halfway into the tub. He then filled the remaining space with the more of the vanilla glycerin so that the design was entirely covered. He rocked the tub back and forth to properly settle the liquid soap, so that there would be no gaping holes or bubbles in the final bar.  
  
While he let the bar sit on the counter to solidify, he moved on to making the inner design for the next bar. That just involved pouring the remaining vanilla into a long, thin container to be carved into shape later.  
  
Charlotte finished her tub of green-and-pink verbena soap at the same time.  
  
  
  
"So," she said, putting hers on the cooling rack next to Blaine's. "You didn't finish your story. What did the hair say to you this morning that made you late?"  
  
"Oh, well," Blaine started, embarrassed. "I asked him to dinner?"  
  
Charlotte raised her eyebrows and gave him a look.  
  
  
  
"You like this guy, but you don't want to date this guy, because then he'll be a douchebag, and yet you asked this guy out?" She sighed. "The intricacies of your mind will forever baffle me, Blaine."  
  
"I didn't ask him out, I just asked him _out to dinner_."  
  
Charlotte rustled his hair fondly. "Sure you did, kid."  
  
  
  
The rest of the day went by per usual; Blaine made another few bars of soap, and helped Alex in the front with the usual gaggle of European tourists that had stumbled their way into Nolita.  
  
Lemon waltzed back in after the first hour, dragging Stanley behind her by the leash. Much to Charlotte's chagrin, Blaine had sent him off on a walk to clear out the shop of the smell of incense and weed before the shop officially opened.  
  
The flock of teenaged tourists who were browsing the shelves gave a barely-hushed burst of laughter upon seeing Stanley's shirt, which was bright purple with a detailed illustration of a wolf howling at the moon. Stanley was completely oblivious to it however, and headed directly towards the back room.  
  
"Blaine," he called, snapping his fingers and giving the signal to follow without actually looking at Blaine. Resigned, Blaine sighed and trailed him into the back room.  
  
  
  
"What's up, Stan," he said, already exasperated as he entered the back room.  
"Blaine. You're gay. Therefore, you know fashion. So tell me honestly." He held his hands out, exhibiting his shirt. "Does this shirt make me look fat?"  
  
"Stan."  
  
"No, really, because people keep giving me second glances and -"  
  
" _Stan_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Charlotte and I finished the EllVee and Frosting loafs while you were away; did you want us to finish any other ones today? I'll need to get them done soon to be ready for tomorrow."  
  
"Uh - no, we don't need any other ones. But about my shirt -"  
  
"I'm going to go back to the front now."  
  
  
  
The rest of the day passed as usual, with customers coming and leaving in a steady stream. Blaine enjoyed working at the shop, particularly when Charlotte was on shift. The two of them worked particularly well together; Blaine was good at finding exactly what customers wanted, while Charlotte was the firm hand that some customers needed to get out the door.  
  
At four forty-five, his phone blipped.  
  
  
  
 **At 4:45 pm  
From: Kurt Hummel  
  
Evelina decided to close up early, so I'm heading towards you now!**


	4. Cilantro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU again to all of my pre-readers/betas!! Y'all are babes.

_______________

Chapter 4: Cilantro  
_______________

 

**At 4:45 pm  
From: Kurt Hummel  
  
Evelina decided to close up early, so I'm heading towards you now!**

**  
**"Charlotte, you are _not_ allowed to say anything."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just - be nice, okay?  
  
"I'm always nice."  
  
"Nice like a velociraptor."  
  
"That's the nicest complement you've ever given me," Charlotte said, cooing.  
  
  
Kurt showed up five minutes later, his hair perfectly coiffed as usual. His leather bag was strapped across his chest, the dark leather shining with obvious upkeep.  
  
"I'll be done in just a minute," Blaine called before Charlotte could say anything. "I'm just clocking out."  
  
"Take your time," Kurt said, running his hands over the bars of facial cleansers, analyzing the textures.  
  
"So you must be Kurt," Charlotte swaggered up to him, smirking. "Blaine's told me all about you."  
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Considering we've only known each other for three weeks - and have only hung out for a few days of that - I highly doubt even he  _knows_  all about me." He held out his hand. "You have the name right, though. I'm Kurt. And you?"  
  
"Charlotte. I'm the other manager. That's Alex," she said, gesturing to the girl sweeping the shop. "Say hi, Alex."  
  
"Hi," she said, waving the broom, before continuing on.  
  
"Good girl." Charlotte looked back to Kurt, considering. "So, are you gonna treat our boy right?"  
  
  
"And that's our cue to leave," Blaine said, grabbing his bag from its place underneath the register and briskly walking to the front of the shop. "See you tomorrow, Char. Try not to blow up the place while I'm gone, I like having a job."  
  
  
"Are you going to rush me out of here again?" Kurt asked once they were outside, his eyebrow moving steadily higher. "I'm beginning to think you work with crazy people, Blaine. Either that or you're embarrassed of me."  
  
"It's certainly the former," Blaine said, situating himself. "So. Cuban. Pipo's. Good."  
  
  
The two of them walked the few blocks over to Prince Street in relative silence, as the crowds had already picked up from the influx of people getting off work.  
  
The café was populated with locals, who sat at low iron tables outside - primarily old Latino men, smoking and speaking in gruff, rapid Spanish. The café itself was set up as a buffet, the stainless steel countertop stretching along its entire left side.  
  
"So what's good here?" Kurt asked, looking at the menu hanging above the buffet line. "Most of the menu's in Spanish…."  
  
"Oh, uh - I normally get the roast pork, or the ropa vieja; most of their specials switch out every night. If I want something different, I normally ask Fidela -"  
  
"Did someone say my name?" intoned a loud voice with a thick Cuban accent. Its owner turned about in place behind the buffet; she was a short, bronze-skinned woman with a warm face and dark curls pulled into a tight ponytail. "Oh, Blaine! Come here, come here!" She gestured to him from behind the buffet.  
  
  
"Hola, Fidela!" Blaine said, and dutifully accepted her kiss on each cheek. "I brought you a new customer!"  
  
"Oh, you are such a good boy," she said, patting his scruffed cheek. "But you need to shave if you wish to catch this one, baby."  
  
Blaine sputtered as Kurt waved arily at the woman, introducing himself.  
  
  
"So what you want tonight, Blaine?" she asked, retrieving the pen from behind her ear and gesturing to the menu behind her. "Today we have the Paella Valenciana, with clams, mussels, shrimp, scallops, calamares, chicken, and pork; Mahi Mahi Cayo Hueso, Boliche Criollo, Pollo Tropicale, and we have another tray of your favorite coming out in just a minute!"  
  
"Well I'll have the Ropa Vieja then, with massaca - I mean, sorry, yuca - yellow rice, and platanos. Uh -" he looked at Kurt, and pointed to each item of the menu as he explained.  
  
"The Paella is a rice dish, cooked with a lot of broth so it's really flavorful, not dry. Boliche Criollo, that's an eye round of beef stuffed with chorizo and roasted….The Pollo Tropicale is a citrus mojo chicken breast, with onions and cilantro, and Ropa Vieja is basically a flank steak stew in catalana. What's the Mahi, Fidela? I haven't tried that one."  
  
"That's because we don't make it that often - only when the fish is really good. It's a fillet in citrus juices grilled with onions and served with Good Rice."  
  
"I guess I'll take the Tropicale?"  
  
"You want three sides."  
  
"Do you like bananas?" Blaine asked him, nodding to the buffet. "Their platanos are really good; they're like sweet fried bananas, almost. Their texture is awesome."  
  
"I'll take the side salad, yellow rice, and platanos then," Kurt said after he had reviewed his options.  
  
"No beans?" Blaine asked, nudging him and smiling.  
  
Kurt made a face. "I'm not a big  _bean_ person."  
  
"Those'll be up for you right away, honeys," Fidela said as she punched them into the register. "You want anything else?"  
  
"You don't have anywhere to be tonight, right?" Blaine asked. "Because I could totally do with a pitcher of Sangria, but I don't want to finish it by myself."  
  
"Ohmygodyes," Kurt breathed out in a single word. "That sounds wonderful right now - you would not believe the day I had."  
  
"Add that to my bill then, Fidela," Blaine said, shooing off Kurt's attempts to pay. He handed over the cash for his meal and she pinched his cheek in reply. "Go get your seat, boy."  
  
  
After Kurt had finished paying, they grabbed a seat at a corner booth with their plates and pitcher of sangria.  
  
"So," Blaine said, pouring himself a glass along with an orange and a lemon. "How was your day?"  
  
" _Ugh_ ," Kurt squeezed his first orange wedge into the sangria itself, and perched the second on the edge of his glass. "My eyes are killing me - I've been staring at that damn seersucker all day. Lines and lines and lines everywhere."  
  
"Yeah, you mentioned that; how many do you have done?"  
  
"Five." Kurt sighed, his head slumped. "Five down, thirteen to go, I guess. It makes me want to tear my eyes out, or just buy a bucket of paint and throw it all over my mannequins. At least then they'd have a more interesting sense of style."  
  
"Okay, seersucker isn't _that_ bad."  
  
  
"It's okay in dark grey and blue," Kurt said firmly. "Those colors I understand. Those colors make sense. Did you know that they make college seersucker? Like, specific seersucker patterns for certain college football teams, with colors like orange and purple or red on black with little team insignias peppered all over like a five year old gluing glitter stars on a piece of paper?" He huffed, and reached for his sangria. "I know this is a big project for Evelina to give me, but I miss making my designs." He took a sip of it and made a small noise of pleasure. "Oh, this is _amazing_."  
  
"Well," Blaine said, swallowing his bite of yuca, "I can understand that. I mean, you graduated from Parsons, right? Isn't that one of the best fashion schools in the country? That's why they do Project Runway there and all." Blaine paused, his piece of yuca half extended towards his mouth. "Wait. Did you ever meet anyone from Project Runway? Did you meet Tim Gunn?"  
  
  
"Only once, and I'm not drunk enough to tell that story," Kurt said a little guardedly. "But yeah, they do Project Runway there. Are you a fan?"  
  
"Of course! I want to be Tim Gunn.  _Make it work, designers!_ " Blaine mimicked, intonating the voice perfectly.  
  
" _Where's Andre_?" Kurt asked, chuckling.  
  
" _What happened to Andre_?" Blaine continued, and the two broke off into laughter.  
  
"But really, I completely admire what you do. Your sketches are amazing - I'm not really a fashion buff or anything, I just have my old bowtie collection and my Vogue subscription, but I know you're good. You could totally show up the competitors this season, I can tell." He stopped, considering. "Except for maybe Sonjia. She put  _gummi sharks_  on a  _dress_. Total props."  
  
"Oh, I know I could at least take Raul. That man needs to learn how to use a measuring tape. And Buffi needed to go; that last outfit? The zebra print jersey with the coral chiffon?" Kurt groaned and put his face in his hands. "How do you even  _do that_  as a human being with _eyes_?"  
  
"I do really like Christopher, though - he's totally cute, if a little over emotional."  
  
  
Kurt squinted at him, as if he was a particularly complex puzzle he was trying to unlock. It was  _disconcerting_ , and Blaine broke his gaze to eat another polite bite of ropa vieja and rice.  
  
Blaine's shirt sleeve had ridden up on his left arm with the movement, and Kurt's eyes drifted to the crests and waves of ink that were slightly more visible now.  
  
"I don't know if it's against the rules to ask, but what are your tattoos of?" He cleared his throat. "If it's personal you don't have to tell me, I was just wondering."  
  
  
"Oh!" Blaine exclaimed, and pushed his shirt up to the top of his shoulder, exposing the half-sleeve of vibrant tattoos underneath. "It's not against the rules to ask at all; plenty of people are intrigued by them."  
  
"It's just, well - don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem like the kind of guy who  _would_ have a ton of tattoos."  
  
"I wouldn't have expected myself to, either, to be honest. My roommate and I got our first ones during the fall of our junior year, while we were abroad in London. I got the title of my favorite poem on the back of my shoulder blade, with a few dust whorls." He gestured to the area, hidden by his shirt. "I thought that it was going to hurt, but I knew that I wouldn't regret it, since that poem really shaped my life in a lot of ways. After, it felt like a hole in my skin that was empty had been filled in, like it had always belonged there, you know?"  
  
He brushed over his tattoos with his fingertips, tracing the lines there. "After that, I talked with my co-manager at the shop - you met her, Charlotte, though she was my manager then. The one with all the ink. She told me that that was exactly how she felt about her tattoos - that they were always a part of her, and that she needed to get them for her skin to feel complete."  
  
"Is it okay if I ask what poem it was?"  
  
"Anis Mojgani's 'Shake the Dust.' He's a spoken word poet out of Oregon, and he's just  _incredible_. It's his most famous poem, but wow, his word were famous for a  _reason_."  
  
"I'll have to look it up when I get home."  
  
"Make sure to youtube it - just reading it isn't the same as hearing him perform it. I'll write his name down for you, it's kind of hard to spell."  
  
  
"So what were your other ones, then?" Kurt asked, gesturing down to Blaine's exposed shoulder with his fork, a piece of pineapple speared on the end.  
  
"Well the next one I got was the camera -" he turned a little, so that Kurt could see the whole of it. It was an old fashioned film camera with a teal top, a white bottom, and a flash bulb; beneath it was a neck strap, spread out and curving like a banner, reading  _Castro Camera_ in a yellow type reminiscent of the seventies.  
  
"I got this one in San Francisco, as a sort of memorial," Blaine stroked over the type, and the memories contained within.  
  
He had gone to San Francisco over the summer before his senior year, and had been astonished more than anything by the history there. He had wanted to climb every part of that city, to explore the hills and peaks where past generations of gay men and women had marched before, seeking equality. He had visited the Castro, and the site where Castro Camera had once occupied, and despite the sunlit day and the crowds of people bar-hopping on either side of him, he had been overwhelmed by the history.  
  
"You know Harvey Milk, right? The first openly gay public official in the U.S.?" Kurt nodded, but still looked somewhat confused.  
  
"He had owned a camera store, called Castro Camera, that he ran all of his campaigns out of, and that became sort of a center for all the LGBTQ youth in the area. He worked hard - so hard - to win the rights that I enjoy today, and he was assassinated for them. He, and countless others. He and his compatriots were really the people who spearheaded the gay rights movement, and made it what it is now. And I got this as…sort of a thank you, to the people who made living my life possible. The camera is supposed to be a lens through which we view the past, after all. It reminds me of everything they sacrificed then for my sake now."  
  
Blaine raised his head and caught Kurt' eye. The other man was smiling, and his eyes were a little teary. He wiped at them with the corner of his napkin, trying to pass them off.  
  
"That's…that's actually really beautiful, Blaine." He stopped, and looked Blaine straight in the eye. Blaine gave a sharp inhale at the crisp blue-green piercing through him, the flush on the other man's face genuine.  
  
"I know I feel the same way." Kurt said firmly, and despite all of Blaine's attempts to quench the voice within him that said  _this man understands, this man is perfect, it's not too soon to fall in love,_  he couldn't help but give a teary, honest smile in return.  
  
  
"The other ones are more personal than historical, I'm afraid," he said a little self-consciously. "The circular one is actually the interior mechanism of a compass-watch that used to be my great-uncle's. And on the back of my arm I have Orpheus's lyre, which I understand is totally nerdy but I love it anyway." He laughed, still a little raw. "When I got my third tattoo, I actually extended my first one, so that the dust whorls would connect the rest of the sleeve. That's what these are," he traced along the deep teal swirl, the bottom black edge of it the ink that extended furthest down his arm.  
  
"I still don't know what to get here though," he said, gesturing to the top of his shoulder. The curved portion there was bare, as if waiting for an artist to paint on it. "I haven't decided yet, but I think it should have something to do with scent. It just feels empty for now. Any thoughts?"  
  
Kurt hummed around a piece of platano. "Maybe a bottle of essential oil? Or a chemical equation for a scent?"  
  
"This is totally a forward question, but - would you consider drawing something up for me?" Kurt gawped at the question, his fork dangling. Blaine continued. "I know you miss designing your own things, and I really have no artistic talent with a pencil whatsoever. I mean, don't worry about it, it was just a thought -"  
  
"I'll do it," Kurt said, his voice growing stronger. "I just wasn't expecting you to say that. We've only known each other for a few weeks, now, that's all."  
  
"I know," Blaine said, laughing. "But I trust you. And I feel like we get each other already, don't you?"  
  
Kurt smiled, his teeth showing. "You know, I do."  
  
  
They ate in companiable silence for a few minutes, each of them taking another refill of sangria as well.  
  
"So…" Kurt said, as if trying to find the right way to say something. "Your  _roommate_ …what tattoo did he get?"  
  
"He got the logo of the underground dance company he led in High School, out in the Boston area," Blaine grinned. "He's a really awesome guy, and an incredible dancer. I could honestly sing his praises for hours; he's like my best friend. Mike Chaaaaaang!"  
  
"So he's a dancer?"  
  
"Yup! We graduated together from NYU; we met there, actually. He co-leads a dance troupe here in Manhattan, and choreographs on the side." Blaine paused, thinking. "Actually, his girlfriend Tina is the only other person I've ever met in New York from Ohio!"  
  
  
"Wait," Kurt said, holding up his hand to pause. "What's Tina's last name."  
  
"Cohen-Chang, I think? Which is funny, since people always think they're related -"  
  
"Oh. My. God. You know Tina?" Kurt exclaimed, his hands flailing in his excitement. "You're roommates with her boyfriend? Oh my god, this is just too good!"  
  
"Wait, how do you know Tina?"  
  
"We were in Glee Club together in high school; she graduated the year after me, but we're still good friends. I just can't believe you know Tina!"  
  
"Yeah, she made our furniture actually! It was the stuff from her junior show."  
  
" _You_  got her furniture?" Kurt groaned. "Oh my god, I am so jealous right now. I begged her for those for weeks!"  
  
"Sorry, I'm not giving them back. That couch is the best part of my life. And side note - you guys were in Glee Club? In Ohio? Where did you go to school?"  
  
"McKinley, New Directions - in Lima?"  
  
Blaine coughed around his next bite of platano. "Are you serious? I was in the Warblers! At Dalton?"  
  
"Get. Out."  
  
  
"No, seriously!" he grinned, unbelieving. "I know I look different, but we totally competed junior year. I was the one with the gel? We did a P!nk medley."  
  
Kurt thought about it for a minute, nodding. "You were…you were the lead, weren't you? That's crazy! Do you still sing?"  
  
"To myself, yeah," he chuckled. "You saw me in the soap store, the first time we met. That's the extent of my singing career for the moment." He swirled his fork around his mostly empty plate absentmindedly. "I originally came to NYU with a focus in vocal performance; I was basically recruited by their Glee Club, after my three years with the Warblers. But once I got here, I don't know…" he sighed, resigned.  
  
"Being forced to perform every day in such a rote manner was just boring to me. It took all of the enjoyment, all of the art out of it. I didn't want to sing as a career, because it made it something I had to do, you know?  
  
"I have a few relatives - well, really, just one in particular - in show business. I've seen him perform for a living for years, and to be honest, it's changed him in a lot of negative ways. It's not about the art anymore, it's about doing what's popular in a way that will get you fans and more, higher paying jobs, that will hopefully lead to more celebrity. You know what I mean?"  
  
  
"Yeah," Kurt murmured, looking down at his plate. "I really, really do actually. Sometimes performing for a living gives you blinders, I think, because everything is  _all about you_. It's not about the performance anymore, it's about the attention." He rubbed at his arm, his gaze downcast. "I have an old friend who's exactly like that, actually. I quit doing performance for the same reason."  
  
"I was going to ask you that. Do you still sing?"  
  
"I've done one or two small plays and musicals since I've come to New York, but to be honest? I don't like how cutthroat it is here. I sing for myself first, you know? If I'm going to be cutthroat, I'd much rather do so with my sewing needle than with a microphone."  
  
Blaine gave a small smile. "I'd still love to hear you sometime, though. It's only fair; you got to hear me."  
  
Kurt looked up at him, flattered. "I don't sing in public very much any more, but maybe one day while I'm working, I suppose. It happens much more naturally, now. I tend to leave the real parts for people who are trying to make a living off of it."  
  
  
"That's the other reason I quit, as well," Blaine said, a little sadly. "My folks weren't particularly happy about a performance major; singing doesn't exactly pay the bills. Of course, they weren't much happier when I decided to go into psychology - they're still in the camp that classes psychology with "alternative" holistic medicine. I'm one step away from homeopathy in their eyes."  
  
"Didn't you say you had a relative who was in the business?"  
  
"Yeah, but Cooper's a…special case. In more ways than one."  
  
"Crazy uncle?"  
  
"Brother, actually." Blaine shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable at the mention of his brother. Cooper was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now.  
  
  
"Uh - so how's your chicken?" Blaine asked, trying to switch the topic. Kurt obviously noticed, but didn't say anything.  
  
"It's delicious; I love how fresh the cilantro is. Super light. To be honest, I was kind of expecting a consistency similar to Chinese-buffet-orange-chicken when I walked in, but this is wonderful."  
  
"Mmm, I agree." Blaine looked down at his mostly empty plate, and the still quarter-full pitcher of sangria. "Hold on, I'll be right back. You're not lactose intolerant, or allergic to custard or anything, right?"  
  
"Uh…no?" Kurt replied, furrowing his brow in confusion as Blaine jogged back to the now-vacant line in front of the café.  
  
  
"Hey Fidela - do you have any tres leches cake on tonight?"  
  
"We have one soaking in the back right now - you want a piece?"  
  
"One piece of cake, and one flan please," he said, holding up two fingers. "And actually - Kurt!" he jogged back to the table. "Do you want a coffee?"  
  
"No thanks," Kurt said, nursing his sangria. "I'm pretty happy with this, to be honest," he winked.  
  
"Right," Blaine said, trying not to flush at the way Kurt sucked the slice orange into his mouth, the movement of his lips against the tender inner flesh. "Uh. One sec."  
  
  
He turned back to the buffet line, trying valiantly to stop the flush spreading across his face, imagining Kurt's lips against his, or against _other_ places.  
  
"Alright," he said in a slightly wavering voice, hoisting a tray with two plates and two cups back to the table. "So we have tres leche cake, which is a sponge cake soaked in sweet milk, and a flan, because theirs are  _awesome_."  
  
The two remaining cups were his café con leche; he poured the scalded milk slowly into the cup of Cuban espresso, making sure to distribute it evenly. The demerara sugar in the espresso always tasted deeper than regular sugar, and the texture of the drink was so different from even a typical latte or coffee that Blaine groaned a little in enjoyment.  
  
  
Kurt flushed into his bite of flan, and tried to mask his own moan of happiness at the taste. "Oh my god, this is like crème brulee, but  _better_. How?"  
  
"Try the cake. It's like…moist. And perfect. I want to live inside that cake."  
  
"This cake should be your new tattoo."  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
  
They finished the rest of their dessert in mostly silence (but for groans of pleasure), and they subsequently drank more sangria to create an excuse for their flushed faces.  
  
"Any big plans for tomorrow?" Blaine asked, as they were finishing up the last of the cake. "I know it's a Monday, but you never know."  
  
"Just one plan aside from work, actually. There's a perfume shop over in Williamsburg that I stumbled upon, that can make copy bottles of perfume. I don't know how good they are - it might just be a bunch of hipsters with a few bottles of essential oil, for all I know, but I figure it's worth a shot. I can maybe get those last two or three notes in the perfume out of them, at least."  
  
"Is that for your mom's perfume? You mentioned it before."  
  
"Yeah," Kurt said, a little wistfully. "I still have a pretty decent amount of her last bottle left; enough to make a few copy bottles from, at least. It's just that I'm afraid that losing it entirely will mean losing that connection to her, you know? It's like what you said about scent and memory, that first time we met. It's the clearest way for me to see and remember her. I don’t want that memory to fade."  
  
"I understand."  
  
It was all Blaine could say.  
  
  
It was amazing, how far Blaine felt he had connected to Kurt. He had clicked quickly with other friends before, sure, but none as quickly or as solidly as he had with the man across from him.  
  
"Well, I think it's time to head out," Kurt said, trying to stop their companionable conversation from becoming awkward silence. "Shall we?"  
  
"We shall," Blaine said, and the two of them proceeded out the doors and down the street together. When they reached the corner of Prince and Bowery, Kurt turned to look at Blaine.  
  
"What station do you leave from…? I don't need you to walk me home."  
  
"Uh…Bowery; I take the J train. And you?"  
  
"The same, actually…you live in Williamsburg?"  
  
"Bushwick."  
  
"How have I never seen you before, then?"  
  
"Bad luck, I guess."  
  
  
Blaine tilted his head back to breathe in the night air; though the air had cooled, it was still muggy, thick with a million smells from a million people piled atop each other. The sky was empty of stars, far-off spotlights casting beams on the clouds of smog overhead.  
  
"It's still so strange to me, how you can never see the stars in New York. I mean, I don't miss Lima one bit - you couldn't get me back there if you paid me - but I do miss being able to look up and see the constellations. The sky feels strange without them," Kurt said, echoing Blaine's thoughts.  
  
"It's like here and Ohio aren't even in the same world anymore," Blaine said, looking back down at the sidewalk. "Not that I'd mind being a world away from Ohio, but…I miss the stars, too."  
They went down the stairs into the subway station, heading on instinct to the pay terminals. Most of their ride back to Brooklyn was spent in silence, the two of them watching the ever-shining lights of the city reflecting across the water.  
  
  
Blaine sat in the window seat, his forehead pressed against the glass. He could see Kurt watching him in their reflection, but he was too buzzed on the sangria, too absorbed by the lights, to pay it much attention. He thought, instead, of how wistful Kurt had sounded when he talked about his mother. Maybe he would offer, when he sobered up, if Kurt wanted him to give it a try at identifying the notes; he was the one who mixed most of the oils at Token. And he wanted to help Kurt, almost necessarily, for some inexplicable reason.  
  
"Alright, this one's my stop," Kurt said, snapping Blaine out of his reverie.  
  
"I'll see you soon, right?" Blaine said, trying to keep his voice sounding friendly - and nothing further. "Now that we have each other's numbers it'll be easier, at least."  
  
"Yeah, definitely," Kurt smiled, as he looked from Blaine's eyes to his lips and back down again. "See you soon. Text me when you get back to your apartment, to be safe."  
  
"I will," Blaine replied, and waved Kurt off as the train doors opened.  
  
His face fell as Kurt exited.  
  
  
Keeping himself from falling straight into love was going to be _much_ harder than he thought.


	5. Cypress and Cedar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank thanks to everyone for their feedback on this so far! Particularly to Jenny for being THE BEST BETA. <3

Kurt nestled his face further into his pillow, the soft morning light falling across his cheekbones from the window next to his bed. His room was as quiet as was possible for an apartment in the middle of Bushwick - the sounds of the city were, by now, familiar to him, from the rumble of cars to the bells of the nearby church.

It was his phone that woke him, its mechanical chirping rousing him from his late-morning slumber. He lifted his head fuzzily to stare at it, confused. It blipped again, and he rolled over in the opposite direction towards the wall, pointedly ignoring it.  
  
Little peeks of sunlight were shining through his curtains, casting sunbeams on the wall. He drifted back to sleep, peaceful in the knowledge that he had nowhere to be that day.  
  
It was because of that he groaned, exasperated, at hearing the cacophonic clack-clack of stilettos coming down the hall and through his room.  
  
"Santanaaaaaa…," he moaned, throwing his comforter over his head to dampen the noise.  
  
"Morning Starbitch, the Earth says hello!" she crooned, her voice a little raspy from the night before. He peeked above his blankets to see her standing at the foot of his bed in a short red dress, a black silk scarf draped around her shoulders.  
  
"Did you have fun summoning demons at your monthly Satanist orgy last night?"  
  
"For your information, Prissalina, it was a  _Wiccan_  orgy, and the only thing we summoned was lots of orgasms. If you ask nicely, I'm sure several of the participants would do you the public service of removing that stick from your ass, provided they could insert another."  
  
Kurt noticed that the black lace of her bra was showing, and that she was carrying what looked like a stuffed monkey in one arm. She also had some smudged eyeliner between her two eyebrows, giving her a sort of misshapen unibrow.  
  
He stared at her, uncertain.  
  
"It was a costume party over at LeBar. Lesbians love them some Frieda."  
  
"Where did you get that monkey?" he said, squinting. "And is that my scarf?"  
  
"I confiscated it as a punishment for getting  _The Sound of Music_  stuck in my head. Do you have any idea how distracting it is to have "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria" stuck in your head while you're pegging someone  _named Maria_?" She threw the scarf at him, and it floated gently to drape over his head.  
  
"Oh, and you might want to get it washed. Maria likes to have her hands tied."  
  
He scrambled to remove the scarf from his face as she exited the room, laughing.  
  
"You are a terrible human being! This is Hermes!!"  _This_  was why he hated living in a railroad apartment.  
  
All of the rooms were connected - the front door to the living room to the kitchen, and then to his room, followed by Santana's. Thankfully, she usually entered through the back door, sparing him the early morning/late night wakeups, when she was either coming back from her latest hookup or leaving for her early depositions.  
  
He could hear the shower going in the other room, and the sound of Santana's deep singing muffled through the door.  
  
Reaching over his side table, Kurt grabbed his laptop from his desk. Then he remembered his text and checked his cell phone.  
  
 **At 9:45 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
IDK if you're awake or not, but you NEED to see this video  
  
At 9:45 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
Lol forgot the link: http://youtu.be/wavh47RpLz4**  
  
Kurt clicked the link to open up youtube on his phone, and in spite of himself, he couldn't help giggling at the otters on the screen.  
  
 **At 9:58 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
Did you really just send me an otter video? Are you too hipster to send cat videos?  
  
At 9:59 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
HEY don’t be mean!! it has your bitchface ok  
  
At 9:59 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
Blaine you have not SEEN my bitchface. Yet.**  
  
Kurt logged onto his computer and started his usual tour of fashion websites, from Tetino Tête to vogue.com. Santana emerged from the bathroom as he was on the third new page of theurbangent. Cradling her laptop in her arms, she climbed over him and into the bed next to him, so that she was wedged between him and the wall.  
  
"Nice coat," she said, nodding to the suave man on screen.  
  
"It would be much nicer if they _sourced it_ ," he groaned, clicking to the next photo angrily. "What's the point of photographing men's fashion if you don't tell me where to get it?"  
  
His phone blipped again.  
  
 **At 10:08 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
Soooo tired. Up late reading Hitzch's new psych book. It's amazing, but I COULD NOT SLEEP AFTERWARDS.**  
  
Kurt shielded his phone from Santana, angling it away as he texted back.  
  
 **At 10:08 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
Why?  
  
At 10:08 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
Because his work mostly talks about what happens in dreams, and how it relates to a persons larger subconscious,  
  
At 10:08 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
and the possibility of prediction of future events.  
  
At 10:09 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
And?  
  
At 10:09 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
And I had a dream about a marshmallow that ended up eating me two nights ago.  
  
At 10:09 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
So you're worried because a fortune-telling dream book told you you might be forseeing being…eaten…by a giant MARSHMALLOW.**  
  
"So who you textin', lover boy?" Santana asked without looking up from her computer. "I know that look on your face, Princess Celestia."  
  
"Can you stop comparing me to My Little Pony characters? That was off-trend in high school, Christ."  
  
"You didn't answer my question."  
  
"He's just a friend."  
  
"A sex friend? This boy got a name?"  
  
" _Not_  a sex friend. And Blaine. He works over at the soap store near Betinello's - real hipster-type."  
  
"Dirty hipster, or -"  
  
"In what universe would I ever date a dirty hipster?"  
  
"So you want to date him now. I  _see_."  
  
Kurt flushed, caught, and fell back against the pillows. His phone buzzed again.  
  
 **At 10:10 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
Don't judge me :p**  
  
Kurt snorted, and Santana raised an eyebrow in surprise. He quickly shot back,  
  
 **At 10:10 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
I will do all the judging I like tyvm**  
  
"Dating, huh?" she asked again, her voice softer.  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
He moved closer to her under the comforter, the curve of her side warm against him. They were far past frigidness, by now. They had been roommates together since Kurt's sophomore year, and though he could not say that he had enjoyed every minute of it, he certainly loved Santana more than he would have found physically possible in high school.  
  
He could feel her breathing, inhaling the stale scent of cigar smoke masked by minty shampoo, and felt a warm rush of affection flood through him. He cuddled further against her, his cheek fitting against her shoulder.  
  
"What's he like?"  
  
"He's nice. Really nice, actually, in a way that usually gets beaten out of New Yorkers after a few weeks, and kind of wonderfully witty and a much bigger dork than I would have expected." He paused, quiet for a second. "And he is  _really good looking_. His  _arms_ , Santana! His scruff! And you know I hate facial hair on men, because -"  
  
"Because you have a very rigorous skin routine and that's not going to be shattered by someone too lazy to get rid of the sandpaper growing off their face?" She retorted, mimicking his voice.  
  
"But he looks  _so good with it_. I wouldn't even mind the beard burn."  
  
"And you haven't jumped on that and ridden it like a horse yet because…?"  
  
"Because I've gone through my jump-into-bed stage already, and I'd like to have an actual boyfriend rather than someone who I occasionally say hi to while I'm riding their cock?"  
  
He slumped against her, skimming the Autostraddle article she was reading.  
  
"I've done the casual sex thing…it doesn't work for me. I want someone I can actually love, San. Someone to live my life with."  
  
She snorted. "Good luck finding that in the under-30s New York Gay sect, Rainbowface." She narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly suspicious. "He is gay, right?"  
  
"Yes, thank god. My gaydar was working properly for once."  
  
"You can always bring me in for consultations, you know. I can scent a lesbian at fifty paces," she said rather proudly.  
  
He laughed into her skin. "So you'll be my gay bloodhound?"  
  
"Precisely. Just pay me in brand names and Patron Silver and we're golden."  
  
"So we're up on the alcohol scale from Jose Cuervo to Patron now?" he asked, his tone light.  
  
"Maria's my litigation professor. She has high class taste."  
  
"So you can nix number -"  
  
"48-"  
  
"Off your bucket list?"  
  
"Damn straight," she said, and forced him to raise his hand so she could high-five him.  
  
He shook his head. "Your daily sexcapades continue to baffle me, San."  
  
"Yeah, well, at least one of us is getting some."  
  
Kurt continued on to the next website on his usual tour, broadway.com, out of sheer habit. He couldn’t stop his loud exhale when the page loaded, though.  
  
"I see Berry's at it again," Santana said derisively, peering at Kurt's computer. The headline read PRELIMINARY CAST REVEALED FOR NEW "TWILIGHT" MUSICAL; NYADA LEADS ONCE AGAIN, with a picture of Rachel Berry's shining face in full color underneath it.  
  
"I wouldn't begrudge her success if it wasn't for how shitty she's treated the rest of us since," Kurt muttered under his breath. "I mean, are you reading this?"  
  
Santana snorted, reading directly from the page. "'Persistence is all well and good, but there is nothing as brilliant as pure natural talent'? 'I'd like to thank my thousands of adoring fans, without whom I would have received this timeless romantic role'? Is she kidding with this?"  
  
"I'm never going to be able to watch those movies for Taylor Lautner's abs again," Kurt sighed, scrolling further down in the article. "And, I mean, come on - she thanked her publicist, her agent, and everyone who ever said she wouldn't make it, but she didn't even thank her  _dads_." He groaned, and clicked to the next bookmark on his list rather violently. "It's amazing how even four years later she has the innate ability to piss me off."  
  
"Yeah, well, if anything, NYADA exponentially increased her ability to annoy the hell out of people. You left, and for good reason, because you probably would have killed her in her sleep otherwise, and she would have deserved a far more awake and painful death after what she did to you. And to your lump of a brother, for that matter."  
  
Kurt was silent for a moment as he mulled over his freshman year of college, when he and Rachel Berry had been roommates. It was like looking back on a bad dream: the fights, the incessant practicing, the backhanded compliments that eventually turned into outright insults. The way that she had sabotaged his first  _real_  internship. The stress of NYADA had led Rachel to take it out on the one person closest to her - and he had been driven away further than he thought possible.  
  
"I'm pretty sure she still blames me for leaving, after all this time." He said into Santana's shoulder, trying not to let his voice crack. "As if it was my fault for not being a good enough roommate - slash - punching bag for her."  
  
Sensing his distress, Santana pulled her to him, and laid down on his chest; her hair had already soaked through the tank he he'd worn to bed, but he didn't mind.  
  
"Hey. If you hadn't moved out of your apartment with her, you never would have roomed with me. And that would have been a tragedy of near-Shakespearean proportions."  
  
"That is certainly true." Kurt said, laying a kiss on her forehead. "We're practically life partners at this point. Do you still have that rule that we should get married in thirty years if we haven't found anyone yet?"  
  
"That was your shitty romantic comedy dreams making themselves evident in real life, aided by alcohol. I certainly never agreed to it. You know I'm still gonna be a stud in thirty years."  
  
"You sound like Puckerman."  
  
"Puckerman couldn't compete if he had a twenty-five year head start."  
  
Kurt could feel her laughter rocking her body, and she collapsed fully against him, giggling loud and outright. It was contagious, and Kurt had to quickly move to save their laptops from simultaneously falling to the floor.  
  
"I missed sober cuddles," Santana declared, further entangling the two of them together. "All this law school work is bullshit. They should let me take my best gay into class with me, like a companion dog. Gay. You know. They'd have to let me take you with me  _everywhere_."  
  
"Oh, how's everything going with that case? The one with the workout lady?"  
  
"I was making shit up last time; that was from Legally Blonde, dumbass. It's actually pretty boring on paper - just a bankruptcy lawsuit against that movie chain on Thornton that closed recently. It's a lot of fun tearing those fuckwits a new one, though," she said, chuckling. "People do dumb shit with their money, and I get to call them out for it and get  _paid_. I love my job."  
  
"They're having you work in court for your internship now? I thought they had you doing mostly paperwork?"  
  
"I found some key pieces of evidence that my asshole superior missed, so they've been using me more often. You should have seen his face. It was gratifying as  _fuck_." She propped her chin up on his chest, looking directly at him for the first time in the conversation. "This whole lawyer thing is  _totally_  my gig, Hummel."  
  
"Good. You can be my sugar daddy and pay for my trips to Mood for expensive fabric, then."  
  
"Give my bank account a little time, sweetcakes. I have to terrify more companies into giving me cash money first."  
  
She chuckled again, and closed her laptop. "Now. I'm going to go dry my hair, and then as my first act of pimpdom I'm going to buy you coffee and the best low-fat bagel Bushwick has to offer."  
  
She pushed off, and left him sprawled across the bed. "Do I have to sit in your lap the whole time?" he asked, grinning.  
  
"Yes. And I have the right to smack that ass whenever I damn well please." She blew him a kiss from across the room, and retreated to the bathroom.  
  
Kurt checked his phone again to find two more texts from Blaine.  
  
 **At 10:17 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
My roomie is trying to force me out of bed rn. He wants me to be third wheel with him for some reason  
  
At 10:19 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
I threw a pillow at him for insinuating that I was not a third wheel but a sidecar  
  
At 10:28 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
If he hasn't left yet force him to buy you bfast and bring it back. That way you get sleep AND food!! My roomie is currently forcing me out on pain of spanking so you have options here at least  
  
At 10:29 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
Good plan**  
  
  
By time Santana emerged, sleek and triumphant, Kurt had changed into his own clothing and was putting the finishing touches on his hair. The walk to Bagels Away might have been long for them back in Lima, but in New York they moved in tripletime, continuing their conversation while weaving in and out of slow-moving crowds The shop was crowded, like it was every morning, but there were plenty of tables and chairs available outside. Kurt was able to claim one as Santana stepped into line.  
  
The mornings had started to cool as New York moved from August to September, the temperature drop extending a little further every morning. Despite this, it was sweltering; the flowers on a nearby landing drooped in the heat. Kurt was glad that he had opted to wear a tank and shorts rather than his usual pressed shirt and slacks.  
  
The shorts were made of a light, medium gray fabric, cropped and folded over at the knee. His tank - which he had originally purchased as an undershirt in his freshman year of college - clung to his shoulders and chest, more defined from his last growth spurt, and draped down to his waist in a gradient from white to light yellow ochre. A bright orange belt and dark gray shoes completed the outfit. In this heat, it didn't even register for Kurt that he was showing more skin today than he had for his entire high school career combined. He was only glad that he had remembered to apply sunscreen before leaving the apartment.  
  
It was only three minutes later that Tina suddenly appeared, a tall Asian boy in tow.  
  
"Ohmygod." She said, stopping abruptly, before launching off the boy's arm and into Kurt's. "Kurt! How are you!"  
  
"Tina!!" he exclaimed, and hugged her fiercely. "I haven't seen you in, like, six weeks! What's with all the projects, boo?"  
  
"Oh, you know - senior year. They can't help themselves with giving me assignments." She straightened up, and beckoned to man, who was standing awkwardly behind her.  
  
"I can't believe that you two haven't met yet. Kurt, this is -"  
  
"Mike?"  
  
Mike laughed, and held out his hand to shake. "I guess Tina's told you about me?"  
  
" _Plenty_. That, and I know your roommate."  
  
Mike and Tina paused for a second, processing.  
  
"Wait. You know Blaine? How?"  
  
"He works down the street from me; we've been hanging out recently. Apparently you two are platonic soulmates or something?"  
  
"Oh, so you're  _Kurt_ ," Mike said, his voice taking on an entirely different timbre. "The one that Blaine hasn't shut up about recently?"  
  
"Uh," Kurt said, stopping, and Tina giggled.  
  
"We're going to go get our food; we'll be back in a second so save us those seats, 'kay?"  
  
Kurt sat in stunned silence for a few minutes, turning over thoughts in his head. He and Blaine had only known each other for a month and a half, and they hadn't even had each other's phone numbers until three weeks ago.  
  
And now he was _that Kurt_ …?  
  
He pulled out his phone, and quickly texted Blaine.  
  
 **At 10:57 am  
From: Kurt Hummel  
You shouldn't have listened to me and gone with your roommate instead - I'm about to eat brunch w him!  
  
At 10:58 am  
From: Blaine Anderson  
I know he just texted me!! Remind me not to listen to you ; ) Make sure tina doesn't say anything embarrassing and that he orders me my bagel, I'll be there in 10**  
  
  
Kurt flushed and squirmed in his seat, but hastily tried to calm himself as Santana walked out, balancing the bag and two coffees with ease.  
  
"Calm down there, Sparklepants. C-Chang and her boy are going to join us."  
  
"Blaine, too. He's on his way," Kurt said, feigning nonchalance.  
  
"Wait, why is your maybe-sex-friend coming?" she asked.  
  
"Because he's Tina's boy's roommate," Kurt replied, lightly.  
  
She glared at him, almost accusingly. Then she scoffed and looked away. "The world's too small, Hummel."  
  
"You said it," he said, and took a sip of his iced coffee. It was a little too strong - Santana took hers black, and tended to put in less milk and sugar than he actually preferred. It was refreshing, though, and certainly woke him up.  
  
It was like he had been saying for years - there had to be something better about the water in New York. Nothing else could explain how every bagel he'd ever eaten there was superior to Ohio's in every way. This one was honey wheat, lightly toasted, with a light raspberry cream cheese spread.  
  
Mike and Tina joined them a few minutes later, food in hand. Santana shook hands with Mike across the table, her smirk gleaming as she introduced herself.  
  
"So you work as a fashion designer, right?" Mike asked before taking a bite of his bagel. "Blaine said that you were fantastic."  
  
Kurt reflected as they spoke on how many times he had had this exact conversation while in New York: the talk about his job, how he longed to go to fashion week, how Santana was an aspiring lawyer and seemingly the genetic link between human beings and sharks.  
  
Mike was a sweet guy, if a little quiet; he had the pleasantly surprised expression of someone who was still unused to being listened to. He and Tina held hands under the table, maneuvering their coffees with their opposite hand.  
  
"You're a dancer, right, Mike? And you went to NYU?"  
  
"Yeah! Blaine and I met there, actually, even though we were in different schools - I was in Tisch, and he was in Steinhardt, but we lived down the hall from each other our freshman year."  
  
"Where you bonded over your mutual, dorktastic love of  _Back to the Future_  and _Power Rangers_  and dancing spastically at three in the morning?" Tina said, curling her arm around Mike's.  
  
"Yeah, basically," Blaine said, walking up behind them and taking the seat between Mike and Kurt. "Remind me to never turn you down for Saturday Brunch again."  
  
Blaine's hair was still wet; Kurt could see small rivulets of water running down his neck and across his chest, down the wide v-neck of his charcoal shirt. He was also wearing his glasses, thin black frames perched across the edge of his nose with bold teal accents on the interior. His face was still dark with scruff; he had obviously not had enough time to shave before leaving.  
  
Blaine leaned close, lifting his arm to give Kurt a one-armed hug. His hand rubbed across Kurt's back, and as Kurt inhaled,  _christ_ -  
  
He smelled _fantastic_.  
  
Kurt had never noticed it this strongly before, and he smiled weakly at Blaine, patting at his back absentmindedly in return before letting go. Perhaps it was because every other time the two of them had met, it was after Blaine had been working for hours in the middle of a fragrance-inundated soap store. Perhaps it was because he had just come fresh out of the shower, untainted by the odor of the city subway.  
  
It was a deep amber scent, warm and golden like Blaine's eyes in the morning sunlight. There was a little spice to the end of it, a little earthiness, masculinity made tangible to Kurt's senses.  
  
It also made talking particularly difficult.  
  
"How far away do you guys live?" Kurt stuttered out, embarrassed but curious. "That was hardly ten minutes."  
  
"We live about two streets down, actually," Blaine said, taking his coffee from beside Mike and opening up his bag to reveal an everything bagel. "Bushwick might be more than a bit of a rough neighborhood sometimes, but the fact that this place and Kiwi's are so close - and so cheap - keep us here pretty happily."  
  
"Yeah, not all of us can live in Clinton Hill, thank you very much," Mike teased, bumping Tina on the shoulder.  
  
"You practically do, at this point," Blaine said, nudging Mike in turn. He then held his hand out to Santana.  
  
"Sorry about that. I'm Blaine. How do you-"  
  
"Santana," she replied; Kurt knew the look on her face was anything but good. "Kurt's roommate. Best friend. Personal attack bitch. I'm sure you've heard of me."  
  
"Your reputation has preceded you," Blaine laughed, ignoring the vice grip of her nails on his hand. His eyes lingered on Kurt for a moment as he pulled back, flickering down to his collarbone and back up to his face. Kurt thought he was looking for reassurance.  
  
"So…Blaine. What do you do?" Santana asked, and Kurt cringed at her tone - the same she used in court. Mike and Tina were oblivious to the tension; Tina was feeding him pieces of her muffin.  
  
"I'm a manager at a soap store in NoLita, but I'm hoping to go to grad school for psychology soon, if I can."  
  
"Ugh, psychology. Why do you shrinks always feel the need to tell people what's wrong with them?"  
  
"It's not a matter of telling people what's wrong with them, Santana, god -" Kurt snorted.  
  
"And besides, I don't want to practice psychiatry," Blaine said, shifting in his seat. "I had too many negative experiences with clinical psychologists and their inability to actually read and listen to people as a kid. I wouldn't enjoy it."  
  
"Why?" Kurt asked, curious.  
  
"Well. To be honest? I'm too biased. In cases that I'm close to, I get too far into it, and end up comparing myself to the patient too much. I'm hoping to do more research psychology, particularly relating to our sense of smell. There's a really fascinating research lab here at NYU's psych department that deals with scent and memory formation, but it's pretty hard stuff, and it's not likely that they'll let in someone without at least a Master's." His voice trailed off, discouraged.  
  
"You're still writing that proposal though, right?" Mike asked, coming back into the conversation. "I mean, that professor did say he'd consider it…."  
  
"I'm pretty sure that was just him being nice, but I'll send it in, yeah. I mean, it can't hurt to try, right?" Blaine said, his voice unconvincing.  
  
"What would you have to do?" Kurt asked; he had only heard a few of Blaine's ideas, but he was intrigued by the idea of Blaine, with his tattoos and his rugged curls, working in a laboratory.  
  
"I'd have to essentially write a grant proposal for what I'd want to study, complete with independent research and citations. I've been doing some research for it already; that's why working at Token has been so useful. People are always really willing to help me out with my work."  
  
"So what are they researching? This lab?" Tina asked, dipping one finger into her container of strawberry cream cheese and sucking it off.  
  
"Okay, so let me know if this gets too nerdy for you - but there's this theory that you're attracted to the scent of people with immunities that you don't have, so that your offspring will have the best chance of survival."  
  
"To, like - widen the gene pool or something?" Tina guessed.  
  
"Yeah, exactly. And actually - it's been proven that gay men are more attracted to the natural odor of other gay men, which is one of the best pieces of biological proof for homosexuality."  
  
"What was that you said earlier, San, about scenting a lesbian at fifty paces...?" Kurt teased.  
  
"Gay bloodhound," she replied, tapping her nose with the tip of her finger.  
  
"But what I'm interested in is, well - mammals have an inate ability to recognize smells from specific memories. Like, your first kiss." Blaine was staring to his left as he spoke, not at Kurt's face, but at his bare arms. Kurt smiled at him, and he broke off suddenly, looking down at his hands.  
  
Santana snorted. "My first kiss was Bobby Haskerfield in the fifth grade. Why the hell would I want to remember sweaty gym clothes and ketchup?"  
  
"Well, your first love, then. Do you remember them?"  
  
"Root beer lip gloss and Carribean febreeze," Santana said, a little wistful. "She always thought it was perfume."  
  
"It was cedar and cypress for me," Blaine said, a little bashful. "We went to the same old prep school together, and all the hallways smelled like wood and furniture polish. I even switched to cypress pear soap for a while, since it reminded me of him, though it smelled god-awful on me."  
  
"Artie mostly smelled like his mom's laundry detergent," Tina said, tilting her head sideways and thinking. "Or WD-40, if he had just greased his wheelchair."  
  
"Crayons," Mike said, and blushed at Tina's laughter. "We were six, okay?"  
  
  
"What about you, Kurt?" Santana asked, smirking at his exasperated groan.  
  
"You are the _worst_ , San," Kurt said, but didn't continue. Blaine nudged him, their arms brushing, and Kurt could feel the heat of his skin.  
  
"Go on," he said, grinning.  
  
Kurt sighed. "Axe body spray and wet grass, okay? And…nacho cheese Doritos. I was dumb in high school." He sighed even more loudly as Blaine broke into sudden giggles, his whole body curving inward from trying to silence them.  
  
"Are you finished yet?" he asked Santana, who was snickering as well.  
  
"And how is Finnocence nowadays? Still dating women too short for him and trying not to crush anyone under his Godzilla feet?" she asked through her laughter, obviously not finished.  
  
"He's doing alright - working in the shop, trying to take over from Dad. I've been forcing him to send me health food updates."  
  
"So your first crush works for your dad? That's kind of awkward," Mike said.  
  
"Their dad. They're stepbrothers," Santana sipped her coffee, obviously pleased by the blush on Kurt's face.  
  
"I had a crush on him that ended before our parents got married! We weren't stepbrothers then!"  
  
"Kurt," Blaine said, mock serious. "Your life is a Lifetime movie."  
  
"It would have been so much worse if he wasn't straight and we had actually gotten together, I can tell you that much." Kurt said, putting his coffee cup down firmly on the table. "And god, I'd never sell the rights to my life to lifetime. They'd probably get some C-list actor with awful hair to play me, and everyone from my high school would end up pregnant by the end."  
  
"Or in the basements of creepers from the internet," Tina quipped. "Never give out your name online, kids."  
  
"Mmm, speaking of online creepers," Blaine said, swallowing his sip of coffee. "Kurt, you remember Charlotte, from the shop?"  
  
Kurt raised his eyebrow. "She would be pretty hard to forget."  
  
"Well, she's having a show with her band tomorrow night if you want to go! They're a little, uh, loud, but they're pretty fun."  
  
"He's trying to convince you to go because if he doesn't go in a group, he gets mobbed by bears trying to hook up with him," Mike told Kurt smugly. "I mean, they'll probably still try even if he's with a group, but safety in numbers and all."  
  
Both eyebrows were raised by now. "Like,  _bear_  bears, or On-Wednesdays-We-Wear-Leather bears?"  
  
"The latter. Though the former would probably be marginally less creepy."  
  
"Huh. Yeah, I'll go. It sounds like it'll be interesting, at least," Kurt said as calmly as physically possible.  
  
 _Internally_ , though? He was punching the air with excitement.  
  
Was this a date?  
  
A date to keep burly, bearded men from descending on his new friend, but a date nonetheless?  
  
"Oh, and Santana, if you want to come you should too! If you're not busy, that is," Blaine drifted off, obviously a little uncomfortable at Santana's stare.  
  
Maybe not a date then.  
  
"I'll think about it," Santana said calmly, putting down a five dollar bill on the table. "Text my boy the info and I'll consider gracing you with my presence, provided you have decent alcohol."  
  
"It's at a bar in Manhattan -"  
  
"Like I said, make sure you have decent alcohol and I'll be there," she said, making a little clicking sound with her tongue. "You done, Kurt?"  
  
"Uh," Kurt said, looking down at his empty wrapper and coffee cup. "Yeah, I guess so, why -"  
  
"Time for us to go then, bitches!" Santana said, standing up; Kurt scrambled to follow her. "It's certainly been… _enlightening_ meeting you." She looked pointedly at Blaine.  
  
"Let me know about tomorrow!" Blaine said quickly, obviously surprised at their sudden departure. He moved to get up out of his chair, and then sat back down again. "Ah, I mean - so I can get us tickets!"  
  
"Are you coming back here from work before the show?" Kurt asked, standing awkwardly above him.  
  
"Yeah, it doesn't start until late. If you're here, we could maybe meet up and take the train together?"  
  
"At your apartment?" Santana asked quickly; Blaine looked a little flustered.  
  
"Uh, yeah, sure -"  
  
"It's settled then. I'm sure you and Kurt will iron out the details - see you then!" And with that, she dragged Kurt off.  
  
"Bye guys! Tina, text me!" Kurt called out behind him as Santana pushed him into the crowd of commuters. The last glimpse he saw was of Blaine, standing awkwardly and waving goodbye at him.  
  
"Why did you make us leave?" Kurt barked as they turned the corner. "I was actually having a conversation with him -"  
  
"Make him need  _more_ , Hummel. The boy wants it; make him come all the way to you. Now that you've proven you can just up and leave, he'll make that much more effort - you won't have to buy a single drink tomorrow." She pinched his cheek fondly. "See what your Auntie Tana does for you? I'm even saving your poor wallet from the terror of Manhattan."  
  
"But -"  
  
"Listen, that boy is as interested in you as you are in him. Did you see the way he was gazing at you the entire time? He looked like a moonstruck puppy. Your skin got his Victorian Sensibilities all kerfuffled, apparently," she said, huffing out her insults as he struggled to keep pace.  
  
"So he was looking at me?" Kurt said, pleasantly surprised. He had been trying too hard not to look at Blaine to see whether Blaine was looking at him.  
  
"Like he wanted to bathe you in gold-scented soap and suck your soul out of your penis, yes. When you turned around to throw out your cup it looked like he was going to have a seizure from looking at the ass of god for too long. Not that you were any better with him. Could you two be any more obvious?"  
  
"I wasn't that obvious, was I?"  
  
"You were. Not like he minded," she tossed her hair derisively.  
  
The two of them walked in busy silence for a moment, passing through the crowd of people surrounding a small market outside. Old men with grizzled mustaches were selling fruit and sunglasses in the morning heat, their wide-brimmed hats drooping low over their foreheads.  
  
Kurt was trying to decide whether he should be frustrated at Santana - who had really only succeeded in interrupting their conversation - or thrilled at the idea that  _Blaine was staring at him_. And on a day where he had spent less than fifteen minutes picking out his outfit! He decided then that for the concert the following night, a low-cut shirt with skinny jeans would be the way to go.  
  
With the heeled boots. The ones that made his ass look  _fantastic_.  
  
"You're thinking about what clothes you're going to wear tomorrow, aren't you?"  
  
"No," Kurt sputtered out quickly.  
  
"You should wear the ass-boots." She fished his keys out of his back pocket, brushing her fingers roughly against said area. He squirmed away from her, moving behind her as she unlocked the first door to their apartment complex. "Make all the boys come a-callin'."  
  
"So do I get your tentative approval?" he asked, as they climbed the stairs to their apartment, his tone a little hesitant.  
  
"We'll see how tomorrow night goes," she said, rather cryptically.  
  
"So you're coming, then?" he asked.  
  
"I wouldn't miss it. I have the feeling it might be… _interesting_ ," she said with a grin, and closed the door to their apartment behind them.


	6. Bourbon Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to the lovely Jenny and Nikki, who are the greatest betas/prereaders/cheerleaders in the world. YOU GUYS ARE BRILLIANT.

"Thank you for calling Token Soap on Spring Street, this is Blaine. How can I help you?"  
  
"You can help me by loosening up on that intro a little, lil' bro. Phone introductions are the perfect time for improv; you've got to sell yourself. Hold on, I'll call back and we can try again -"  
  
"Cooper?" Blaine said, incredulous. "Why are you calling? And I thought I told you not to call me at work."  
  
"Your voicemail was too boring. And I have an audition tonight, so it couldn't wait. What do you know about Margaret Thatcher?"  
  
Blaine gestured to his coworker, Ray, that he was on a call, and Ray gave him a lazy thumbs up in reply. Wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he retreated to the back room. Cooper's calls were rare, but tended to take hours. Long and frustrating  _hours_. If Cooper tried to force him to go back to acting again, Blaine swore he was going to tear his hair out, and then tear out Cooper's for good measure.  
  
Blaine put the phone on speaker, and moved to grab a half-made bar of soap. "Only enough to know you couldn't play her. You're missing the hair. And the breasts."  
  
"Modern special effects make anything possible, Squirt -" Blaine rolled his eyes - "but as wonderful as I could be as the Iron Lady, I've been invited to audition for her sexier, younger lover who assists her in fighting crime."  
  
"I'm pretty sure that didn't happen," Blaine sighed, reaching for a mixing bowl.  
  
"History is in the eye of the beholder, Blainey-boy. It's been scientifically proven that movies succeed when they contain historical figures that people have heard of before but don't actually remember anything about. Why do you think that Lincoln Vampire Hunter movie is doing so well?"  
  
"I think that's more because of the irony of making Lincoln a Vampire Hunter, and I'm pretty sure most people know who Lincoln is…." Blaine lilted off, reaching for a variety of tall bottles of essential oils.  
  
"Well, we'll see how wrong you are when "Napoleon: Zombie Killer" and "Iron Lady, Shark Murderer" premiere. You'd certainly get an audition for Napoleon if you tried; I was too tall for the height requirement."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Five eight is certainly a respectable height for an actor, Blaine, particularly if you're looking for roles meant for a younger audience. Have you ever considered working on a teen drama? You know I got my start during the Degrassi block -"  
  
"For goodness sake, Cooper, I'm not an actor! I don't want to audition for things, let alone some shitty show for teeny boppers where everyone has sex with everyone!"  
  
"Now, Blaine. I know you've been going through a rough patch recently -"  
  
"I haven't."  
  
"And that you think this whole…  _psychology_  thing is for you."  
  
"It is."  
  
"But as your brother, I need to intervene. You're a performer, Blaine, and this is just you being too scared to go out and get the roles you were meant to play! You're absolutely nuts if you think you're going to be happy doing  _research_ ; there's no fun in it! You need to get out to L.A., start auditioning again; I know that there are a few spots opening up for a bit role in a commercial series that I could get you the name of -"  
  
Blaine cut him off, abrupt. "For Chrissakes, Cooper! I'm not in the middle of some quarter-life crisis, and I certainly didn't stop auditioning because I was scared of being rejected! Hell, I wasn't even being rejected! I quit because I was absolutely  _miserable_  doing it, and I am much happier singing for fun than for profit, which you would know if you spent some time listening to me over the past few years instead of just  _talking over me_  -"  
  
"Oh, come on, Blaine. We both know there's no way a person like you could do science for the rest of his life. We're performers, Blaine. It's what we have to do." Blaine huffed, his eyebrows furrowing. How many times did they have to discuss this?  
  
"I don't  _have_  to do anything. I can be a performer perfectly well in my free time and for my own enjoyment, Cooper. And I don't have to do anything; god, you sound like Dad. I want to do what makes me happy, and researching makes me happier than I've ever been. I love learning things, Cooper! It's not that unusual!"  
  
Cooper sighed, his voice rough through the phone's speaker. But Blaine continued on. "I mean - I can understand business, but I certainly don't want to be a business major, or work at an accounting firm! And just because I sing doesn't meant that I have to be a singer. I don't have to do anything that makes me unhappy; I've finally learned that after all this time. Now, are you going to talk to me about anything else, or is the rest of this conversation going to be about how I'm wasting my talent as well?"  
  
Cooper sighed audibly, overdramatic. "No, though I expect a full apology once you realize I'm right, complete with groveling. Now. Mariana called me yesterday."  
  
Blaine grimaced; it was never good when his mother used Cooper as a liaison. Mariana Anderson trusted that her stepson, stubborn as he was, would always be able to talk Blaine into doing what she wanted, no matter what his protests were. Frustratingly for Blaine, she was usually right. "Why did Mom call you?"  
  
"Because she wants you to come for Christmas."  
  
"To Los Angeles?" Blaine asked, hopeful.  
  
"No, dumbass, to Ohio. I'm going, too. Come on, Blaine, you didn't come last year at all!"  
  
"Not for Christmas, but I came for Thanksgiving! Come on, Cooper. You know why I don't want to go; I don't exactly get on well with our extended family."  
  
"Nonsense, they love you!"  
  
"They spend the entirety of Christmas Day asking why I don't have a girlfriend yet, and Dad backs them up. And, in-between prodding questions about my love life, they drill me on why I'm still living in the Northeast even though I'm done with school, and why I haven't joined the firm yet. I've told them about boyfriends before, Coop!" He stirred at the mixture in his bowl even faster, bringing it to a rough froth.  
  
"You're being ridiculous, Blaine." Cooper huffed. "You need to stop being so sensitive about these things; they're your family, and they're just looking out for you. Now. I need you to tell me everything you know about Thatcher; the Wikipedia article was yawnsville."  
  
**  
  
Blaine leaned against the deep teal walls of the backroom, exhaling deeply. Cooper had talked off his ear for the past two hours about parties he had attended recently, to the point that Blaine had muted the phone and gone up front for twenty minutes, only to find Cooper still talking when he got back.  
  
Talking to his brother was an absolutely massive headache; since when had he turned into  _such a douchebag_?  
  
(Oh, right. He always had been.)  
  
Fame had gone to Cooper Anderson's head like bees to a hive; though his brother had been self-absorbed his entire life, he had only reached truly astronomical levels of blindness once he had moved out to Los Angeles.  
  
The Free Credit commercials had just been the start; after his first film debut, Cooper had, in Blaine's opinion, lost his grasp on reality.  
  
Blaine just wished that he had been able to talk some sense into his brother before this point; if they had conversed earlier on in life, would their relationship have been better? Would Cooper actually  _listen_  to him?  
  
He had to wonder.  
  
Blaine went back to his work, mixing and pouring bars with far more gentleness than before. The first two bars he had made that day would likely be a bust; mixing the gelatin too roughly would cause bubbling in the final product. But making soap, like baking, was soothing to him; once he was no longer on the call with Cooper, he could focus on mixing the ingredients and forming the shapes with a precision that only came with experience. Though the recipes required thorough attention to measurements, the actual formation of the bars was more of an art, each one unique. He didn't really have to think about it at this point, he could just let everything flow.  
  
No matter how he tried to pare it down, though, he couldn't shake the frustration that came from hearing Cooper's comments.  
  
Why couldn’t his family believe that he was happy with what he was doing, and that it was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life? Couldn't they just be happy that he had found his passion?  
  
Lemon wandered in as he was finishing up his last bar - a pink mango papaya soap with curls of yellow-orange embedded inside. He sat down on the tile floor of the back room, and let her crawl into his lap. She put her paws onto his chest, stretching, and he chuckled as she attempted to lick his cheek and chin.  
  
Well, at least  _someone_  was on his side.  
  
"You trying to abduct my dog again, Daphne?" Stanley asked, drying his hands on a towel as he emerged from his office. The towel was stained with a variety of colors, as if a box of paint swatches had spilled on it.  
  
"So I've been upgraded from Scooby Doo to Daphne, now?" Blaine asked, scratching Lemon behind the ears.  
  
"That's a step down, actually, considering you're currently getting paid to sit on my floor and do nothing. C'mere, I need you to smell this. I'm nearly there on the next flavor of the month, but not quite."  
  
Blaine picked up Lemon and followed Stanley back, through the ochre beaded curtains to his office. The smells inside were confused, muddied, likely due to the various sticks of incense and open jars of essential oils scattered about the studio.  
  
Stanley presented Blaine with five different test strips, each doused in a different mixture.  
  
"This one's too powdery," Blaine said right off, putting the first one back down on the table. "It's like they're trying to disguise how much they're sweating. And this one," he sniffed, "is nice, but try it a little bit lighter on the lavender. It's too simple."  
  
They finally settled on the fourth mixture, which involved a bit more of an herbal smell similar to fresh basil.  
  
"You have quite a nose for this, kiddo," Stanley said, waving the paper stick underneath his nose one more time. "You ever think of going further with it?"  
  
"I've been experimenting with making perfume, actually," Blaine said, shuffling through the tiny glass jars for Mint. "I have a decent number of essential oils in a kit in my apartment; I've been playing around with them recently, though I certainly don't have the selection you've got here. Yours are all numbered nicely and everything."  
  
"That's Charlotte's doing, not mine, and you know it. You can have free reign with these, though, if you need them," Stanley said, and Blaine looked up in interest. "Take a while, and actually go through the bottles for yourself one day. I've got some good ones in here that don't normally show up in kits; you know that's what I did before I opened up Token. I've got all the equipment around here somewhere; all that frippery is just too pompous for me at this point. Soap is where freedom truly reigns," he said proudly.  
  
Blaine's eyebrows rose in surprise; Stanley rarely granted his employees free access to his office. "You sure, Stan? Most of this stuff is pretty pricey -"  
  
"Nonsense; it's not like anyone else is using it. Anyway," he clapped his hands together, his palms slick with oil. "You're going to finish this one, because I'm sick of basil. I'll be back in thirty."  
  
***  
  
By time Blaine got home from the store, his fingers were pruned from fiddling with tiny bottles for the better part of a day. His shirt was wet in splotches from a water fight with Stanley, his shoes had accidentally met with a bottle of purple dye, and his curls had already broken free from their gel hold.  
  
But hell, he was so damn  _happy_.  
  
At least, until he realized that Kurt would be in his apartment in under an hour and he smelled like he had been picked right out of the spice aisle.  
  
He rushed to the shower, washing his hair thoroughly to rid himself of the smell. He used his citrus soap instead of his usual amber, as the bright orange would pair better with the basil and mint he had already been saturated in.  
  
Though the apartment was already fairly clean, he set about tidying when he finished his shower; there were two boxes of granola on the kitchen counter, and the remnants of a game of Risk in the living room. He left his ipod in the dock, softly playing Fleet Foxes, as he plodded silently in bare feet around the apartment.  
  
He also tidied his room and made his bed.  
  
…Just in case.  
  
The living room was spotless, the furniture shining from the light glaze of furniture polish he had applied the day before. The kitchen was stocked, and there was water in the Brita filter, and Blaine couldn't believe he was on time for once when there was a knock on the door.  
  
Then he realized that his hair was still soaking wet and curly, and that he wasn't wearing a shirt.  
  
"Sorry, I should have texted you first," Kurt stuttered when Blaine answered the door. Blaine watched as Kurt's eyes darted between his chest, and his face, and the ink of his tattoos. That, combined with Santana's raised brow, gave Blaine a sudden sense of relief that he had spent the extra hours at the gym that week.  
  
"I'm, uh - still getting ready, sorry," he said as he let them inside. "I'll be just a minute."  
  
"Actually, do you have a stain remover pen?" Kurt asked, gesturing to his shirt. Blaine was distracted by its low neckline, his gaze eventually drifting down to the two small brown dots above the hem of his shirt, barely visible. "This shirt will never recover if I don't get this out now; some bozo wasn't looking where he was aiming his coffee."  
  
"And where's your bathroom?" Santana asked, glancing around the apartment. "I need to get my freak on," she said, gesturing to her face.  
  
Blaine pointed her towards his and Mike's shared bathroom, hoping absently that she wouldn't snoop, and gestured for Kurt to follow him. "There's one in my laundry bin; no need to fear."  
  
Though Blaine's room in high school had been painted a deep green, his current room was much lighter. The far wall was all exposed red brick, broken in the middle by a long, black-framed window, which lit the room. The walls adjacent were a neutral tan, and his bedspread was a textured deep red; Kurt looked around the room, admiring.  
  
"Wood floors? Exposed brick? Did you kill someone to get this place?" Kurt asked, running his fingers over the light fabric of Blaine's curtains.  
  
"For the brick? Yes. But the flooring's fake," Blaine said, tapping heel against it. "It's vinyl paneling; much nicer looking than concrete. I put it in myself after we moved in." The curtains were striped with a waving olive green, and Kurt traced the pattern with a finger.  
  
"I like it," Kurt decided, and smiled at him.  
  
Blaine looked at Kurt, haloed by the afternoon light of the window, at the sunlight glancing across his hair, and fell a little further in love.  
  
His heart stuttered even further - and stumbled in his chest - as Kurt moved to take off his shirt.  
  
"Do you have that stain remover, and a towel? I need to blot the stain first," Kurt said, completely oblivious to Blaine's blatant stare. The light curved across the arc of Kurt's shoulder like the sun rising over the earth, stretching past unblemished skin and the hills and valleys of Kurt's shoulder blades as it went.  
  
"Uh," Blaine said, catching Kurt's eyes as he turned. Kurt blushed, as if realizing for the first time that the two of them were  _shirtless in Blaine's bedroom_. Blaine felt a little dizzy with it.  
  
"It's um. Right here," he said, pulling the pen from the pocket of his laundry basket. "You can…borrow a shirt, if you want," he said, a little regretfully.  
  
"That would be great, actually," Kurt said, crossing his arms over his chest. His nipples were a dusty pink, and his chest was really defined, and Blaine  _had to stop staring_.  
  
He blinked, then blinked again, and finally moved to the closet, regretfully tearing his eyes away from the piece of perfection that was standing next to his  _bed_ , for goodness' sake.  
  
Kurt set his shirt on the desk chair to air out after he finished blotting it; the curve of his back as he knelt over it with the stain remover pen was more distracting than Blaine wanted to admit. Feeling guilty about ogling him for so long, he finally tossed Kurt one of his shirts. It was grey, and loose on Blaine, but it stretched across Kurt's chest and rode up a little in the back and oh, Blaine was in trouble.  
  
"You can, uh. Sit down on the bed if you want. I still need to finish getting ready." Blaine kept rummaging through the small dresser in his closet, looking for a shirt to wear.  
  
Kurt knelt to take off his boots. "I like those pants on you, by the way," he said, perching on the edge of the bed. He gradually sunk down against the pillows and groaned in pleasure; Blaine's head shot up, his eyes wide.  
  
"Your bed is so  _comfy_ ," Kurt said, his voice low. Blaine jerked his head back to his dresser, searching deeper to distract himself. He finally pulled out a v-neck white shirt, and paired it with a charcoal sweater from his closet, to match with his tight dark red pants.  
  
"Mike and I are planning on being in New York for the long haul; we wanted to make our apartment  _ours_ , y'know? So we've been working on prettying it up for a while now."  
  
"It really shows," Kurt said, observing the room more fully. "Though you could use a little more lighting; have you considered using string lights?"  
  
"There's a lamp at an antique store nearby that I've had my eye on for a while; I'm hoping to get it for the desk, eventually. The one there now is from Ikea, and it's a little rickety."  
  
The dark wooden desk took up the majority of the right side of the room, and was filled to the brim with neat stacks of paper and small bottles of clear liquid, along with Blaine's MacBook. As Kurt looked, Blaine retrieved his gel, and worked it into his hair using the mirror on top of his dresser. He used far less of the stuff than he had in high school; partially because he was more comfortable with his looks, but mostly because he had gotten lazier over time.  
  
"What are all the bottles for?" Kurt asked, nodding at Blaine's desk. "Working from home?"  
  
"Sort of. I've been playing around a little bit; I think that perfume might be the next great frontier for me. It's a lot more difficult than soap."  
  
"Well, let me know if you get anywhere with it; I might see if you can take a crack at my mom's. I'd trust you with that bottle far more than some random guy up in Williamsburg with a website."  
  
"Really?" Blaine said, looking at Kurt; his voice was a little more tender than he had wanted. He had the feeling that Kurt's trust was hard-won, and he bit his lip to keep from grinning too widely.  
  
"Yeah, of course," Kurt said, his voice soft. He turned his head into Blaine's pillow, and nuzzled against it, looking at Blaine out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Blaine swallowed, his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip.  
  
Kurt looked positively  _delicious_ , sprawled out across Blaine's bed like he belonged there. His skin was pale against the deep red of the bedspread, and his legs were covered in dark skinny jeans so tight, they looked like they had been made for and shaped to his body. His body was curled up, his legs bent at the knee in front of him, so that Blaine could see every inch of that perfect seam from thigh to ass.  
  
He had already seen Kurt shirtless. It wasn't hard to imagine him with less clothing on. Blaine had to force down that thought, though, because these pants showed  _everything_.  
  
"Hey, Curly," Santana said brusquely, entering the room without introduction. Kurt shifted quickly, and her eyes narrowed, darting between the two of them. "You got any alcohol in this place? I'd like to get my drink going before my pocketbook has anything to do with it, thanks."  
  
"Yeah, s-sure," Blaine said, grabbing a pair of socks from his top drawer. "We have beer, wine, bourbon…"  
  
"Definitely the bourbon," Santana said, leading the way into Blaine's kitchen. She perched on the counter while Blaine fished out the bottle from the cabinet, along with two cans of soda. "And no mixer needed, honey; just ice," Santana added, her voice almost condescending.  
  
"You guys eat already? Want some pad thai?" Blaine asked, reaching into the fridge for a large Tupperware, half a lime and a bottle of Sriracha. "I just got home a little while ago, so…I don't want to have to eat at the concert."  
  
It was kind of awkward, being the only one eating in his kitchen while his guests watched, but thankfully Santana started regaling them with stories from her day - of clients that wouldn't shut up on the stand, and judges that got in fistfights with the plaintiffs, which Blaine was fairly certain she was making up. By time Mike and Tina arrived, Blaine had already washed out his bowl, and the three of them were on their third drink.  
  
Their trip to the bar went by in a blur - but Blaine was leaning half-against Kurt by the end of it, the subway too crowded for personal space. He could smell Kurt's shampoo, and tried to discern the color of his eyes without seeming too creepy. Their thighs and sides met and brushed with every rickety curve, until they eventually settled against each other, warm and solid. Blaine tucked his face into the curve of his elbow and tried not to push further against Kurt's thigh.  
  
The bar itself was crowded as well, with the motley crew that New York bars often attracted: the pale, dark-haired girls with awful opinions on politics and nails that glowed like neon lights, the men who had trimmed their stubble to the perfect amount of faux-messiness, the androgenynes with snakebite piercings and a wider variety of hair colors than physically possible.  
  
Charlotte was at the stairs leading to the stage, talking things over with the sound guy. Her bass was strapped around her shoulders, her fingerless-gloved hand gripping it protectively.  
  
"Kiddo!" she shouted when the five of them approached, breaking off from the tech brusquely to wrap Blaine up in a hug. Her jacket had a thick, cloying odor to it, earthy and sweet, and it only took one look at her eyes for Blaine to know what she was up to.  
  
"Really girl? This early?" Blaine asked, trying to sound harsh instead of fond. "Are you going to be alright to perform?"  
  
"Psh; that's nonsense, worrybutt. You know I toke up before goin' up, and I'm fine every time." She winked, and shook her head at him. "You might be living in a city, but you're still an Ohio prep boy at heart, aren't you Scooby?"  
  
"You're ridiculous," Blaine said, but he couldn't help his smiling. "I'm just looking after you, with all your heathen ways. We don't want you falling off the stage."  
  
"Yo, Mike!" Charlotte exclaimed, ignoring Blaine completely. She swooped up Mike in a hug and lifted him into the air, her curved, tattooed arms wrapping fully around his torso. "How've you been, man? You haven't come by the shop recently!"  
  
"Hah, well, I've been busy," Mike said, frighteningly comfortable for a man who was suspended eight inches in the air. "We have a new show coming up this week. What about you? Excited for tonight?"  
  
"We've got a great show for y'all," she said, flipping her lazy Mohawk from one side of her head to the other. The green strands glowed strangely in the colored light coming from above the stage. "You might even get a  _sur-prise-per-for-manceee_ ," she poked at Blaine's sides with every syllable, so that he was squirming and laughing out his protests.  
  
"It's your show, Char! I'm not drunk enough for you to drag me up there yet!" Blaine pleaded through his grin.  
  
"Then go drink, and be ready to sing your ass off. It's my show, and I do what I want," she pushed him towards the bar. "I'm the Honey Badger, goddamnit!"  
  
"I know, I know, and you take no sass from nobody," Blaine sighed exaggeratedly. "First, though, can I introduce you to Tina and Santana? You know Kurt, of course."  
  
Charlotte started a little, as if just realizing that the others were with Blaine and Mike. "Hey, Kurt," she crooned, and clicked her tongue at Blaine. She stopped, however, when her gaze fell on Tina and Santana.  
  
"Hello, ladies," she purred, putting her arm around each of them. "What brings you here tonight?" She licked her bottom lip, flashing her tongue ring.  
  
"I'm Mike's girlfriend," Tina said, a little surprised. "He brought me along; I've been wanting to come to one of your shows for a while."  
  
"And I'm no one's girlfriend," Santana said, eyeing Charlotte, sizing her up. "Santana. Kurt's roommate and head bitch in charge. Pleased to meet you."  
  
"Hmm," Charlotte said, her eyes drifting down, analyzing Santana from head to toe. "Head bitch in charge? I think we'll see about that." Charlotte's hand was still stretched across Santana's shoulders, and Santana moved her own arm down to drape across Charlotte's side, moving up and underneath her jacket.  
  
"Uh, I think I'll go get that drink now," Kurt announced, and Blaine went with him, quick to avoid the upcoming power struggle between the two women. Judging by the looks on their faces, they were either going to get into a fight or have sex on the bar floor, and Blaine didn't particularly want to be there for either.  
  
"So, I'll get to see you sing for real tonight?" Kurt asked, once they had ordered their drinks. "Was that on purpose, or…?"  
  
"No, Charlotte just gets these ideas in her head sometimes when she's been smoking. She knows I don't do it much anymore, so she likes to drag me up on occasion, just to tease me." He took a sip of his drink; the bourbon was almost entirely watered down with soda. Typical.  
  
Kurt leaned forward against the bar; his boots, which he had put on again as they left Blaine's apartment, extended the lines of his legs and curved his ass up  _sinfully_. Blaine willed himself to look out at the crowd instead. "Thankfully, I've played with her band enough to know what song they'll play; they wouldn't throw me up there stone cold, though I wouldn't entirely put it past them."  
  
"Hm." Kurt looked at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling coyly. "Maybe I'll have to join you sometime."  
  
"What's your favorite duet?" Blaine asked, inching a little closer to him to avoid a man leaning over the bar drunkenly behind him.  
  
"Garland and Streisand, Happy Days/Get Happy. It brings back good memories," Kurt smiled a little wistfully. "I sang it with one of my friends in high school, after I had had a…bad week. We don't talk anymore, but I can't help but love the song, still."  
  
"I'm more partial to Kelly myself, but I do love Streisand," Blaine said, chuckling. "Favorite film?"  
  
"Wait, you're a fan of Gene Kelly? Not that I'm surprised, but -"  
  
"You should have seen me in high school - I had the hair and everything. He was, like, my style icon. I might not be a dancer like Mike, but I still had a  _huge_  crush on the man." Blaine ducked his head; Kurt stood up a little further to look directly at his face. "I always wanted him and Donald O'Connor kiss in 'Singing in the Rain'…I know I was supposed to want him to get with Debbie Reynolds, but they were just so attractive together!"  
  
"Some of the most famous literature in existence would have been far more interesting if kissing was involved, to say nothing of television and film," Kurt replied, swirling his straw around his raspberry cocktail. "I thought that 'Two and a Half Men' was about an unfashionable gay couple and their kid; I was obviously disappointed."  
  
"You can misconstrue a lot of things based on TV show titles - I mean, 'The Big Bang Theory.'"  
  
"Big Love."  
  
"Shameless."  
  
"Breaking Bad!"  
  
Blaine leaned in a little closer, conspiratorially. "The X Factor."  
  
"The Biggest Loser," Santana quipped in reply as she walked up to them. The three of them winced at the screech of the microphone as the band performed its final sound check.  
  
"One, one two three four, I declare a thumb warrrr," Charlotte hummed into the microphone. "Alright Billy, looks like it's all right!"  
  
The rest of the band had finally meandered on stage: Pearson, the Chicana drummer who was clinically shy in everyday life, but was fierce as a hardcore metalhead on the drums; Chance, the blond pianist of indeterminate gender, Vivian, their first guitarist and backup singer, Brie, the second guitarist who was formerly a lawyer….  
  
And then there was Ellis, the violinist who had been flirt-stalking Blaine from the moment they met.  
  
Blaine wasn't interested, not in the slightest - Ellis tended to spend most of his time gossiping about everyone he knew (and didn't know,) but his disinterest didn't stop Ellis from winking exaggeratedly at him.  
  
Kurt noticed, of course, both the wink and the way Blaine didn't respond, aside from a brief tightening of his lips.  
  
"Another friend?" Kurt asked, his tone strange.  
  
"No, kind of a creep, actually," Blaine said, turning his back to the stage. "Char's wanted to kick him out for a while, but he manages the band's Facebook account." Kurt moved a little closer to him, his expression less tense, when Charlotte started the introductions.  
  
"Hey lovers, we're happy to see y'all tonight - how are y'all doing?"  
  
She laughed a little at the catcalled responses, from the sarcastic hipsters to the flamboyant twinks in the audience. It was crowded, for a Sunday night, and the crowd was the same eclectic melting pot Blaine had come to expect from Char's concerts.  
  
"Well, it's good to see you too," she said, and with a manic grin she raised her hand in the air. "We are Honey Badger and the Sweetastic Five, and your night just got a helluva lot better."  
  
They started off with one of their more well-known songs, "Button Down," and Blaine was happy to sway along with his drink. The standing crowd had grown as the song began, and Blaine felt Kurt press up closer behind him.  
  
"Sorry," Kurt muttered in his ear, and Blaine could feel the hot breath against his jaw, and could smell the masculine sharpness of his cologne. "There are a lot more people here than I thought - they're really good?"  
  
"Surprising, right?" Blaine asked, leaning up towards Kurt's ear. "I thought they were gonna be awful when I first saw them - they look kind of like an ironic hipster-metal band."  
  
"I was expecting a lot more punk than this, to be honest."  
  
"Char's partner - Vivian, the redhead - is the main songwriter, and she's like the lovechild of Ani DiFranco and Freddie Mercury with a fetish for old jazz."  
  
"That's…a really strange combination, actually."  
  
"When they were getting the band together, they wanted a synthesizer, an upright bass, and a cello…but the stage is pretty crowded with the six of them, let alone nine."  
  
'Button Down' was more Fiest than DiFranco, and Ellis fumbled his fingering enough for Blaine to wince. But the two next songs were much more keyboard-heavy, and Blaine was relieved when Ellis set down his violin entirely. The excitement in the room was growing more palpable, and Blaine was hit by a sudden wave of tipsiness- he had been dancing, his body moving fluidly with the rhythm without him realizing it.  
  
He tilted his head backward, craning to see Kurt behind him, only to be startled when it was Mike instead.  
  
"You totally thought I was Kurt, didn't you?" Mike chuckled, still moving with the music. "Sorry to disappoint - he and Tina went to get another drink."  
  
"I think I'm drunker than I thought," Blaine said, apparently aloud.  
  
It was then that Blaine realized Santana was standing to his right, watching him. She was sniggering to herself, almost silently, aside from the occasional muffled snort.  
  
Blaine couldn't help but grin. He loved it when people laughed - their face lit up and their nose scrunched and you could tell so much about them, and - and yeah, he was drunk.  
  
"So you've been grinding back on your straight roommate for the last ten minutes thinking he was Kurt?" she asked. Blaine had to lean close to hear her over the noise.  
  
He shrugged. "I like dancing!" he replied, to which Mike nodded approvingly.  
  
"And my roommate?" Santana asked. Blaine was distracted by the sparkling curve of her earrings, which hung down to her shoulders.  
  
Blaine realized what she had asked, then, and looked down at the bar floor, at the feet of the people surrounding him. "I like Kurt, too," he said, and couldn't stop his grin at the thought.  
  
"I swear to god, Frodo, if you hurt him, you'll have hell to pay. And mine is a particularly nasty brand of hell," she growled, suddenly all-teeth.  
  
Blaine felt affronted. "I would never hurt Kurt!" he said firmly, looking back at Mike for confirmation. "Besides, I - I don't know. If I should, you know, make a move or something. My last relationship hurt. And I don't want to ruin my friendship with Kurt the way I ruined that." Blaine looked up at her, his eyes wide. "I respect him too much to hurt him. I don't want to screw this up."  
  
Santana looked at him then, with an expression too complicated to decipher through the bourbon. "We'll see how long that lasts," she mumbled after a moment, taking another long sip of her drink. Blaine was about to ask her what she meant when Kurt came back, and handed Blaine a dark amber drink with an orange peel dangling on the rim.  
  
"I had the feeling you liked old-man drinks," Kurt said, clinking their glasses together. His own drink was light and a little foggy, and smelled fresh like lemons, particularly in comparison to the smokiness of the bar. His lips were wet from the ice cube he was sucking on, and Blaine watched as he moved it around his mouth.  
  
"Don't I know this song?" Santana asked as the introduction began, pulsing with a steady drum beat.  
  
Charlotte leaned close to her microphone, gripping it firmly in her right hand. Her skin glowed blue in the lights of the stage, lighting across her eyelashes, her eyes shrouded in dark.  
  
 _Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,  
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed,  
Everybody knows that the war is over,  
Everybody knows that the good guys lost, _  
  
"It's a Leonard Cohen cover, but it's Elizabeth and the Catapult's version," Blaine called over to Santana, remembering. "I did the transcription for the baseline and violin parts - Elizabeth Zeman is one of my favorite musicians."  
  
"I didn't recognize it, since it doesn't sound like a helldemon is singing it," Tina said, smirking and leaning into Mike. He twirled her and her skirt flared with the movement, as they carried on their dramatic faux-tangoing.  
Charlotte craned the microphone towards her, her eyes catching in the light and gazing across the bar floor. He voice was sumptuous, but deep from the earlier smoke.  
  
 _Everybody knows the fight was fixed,  
The poor stay poor and the rich stay rich,  
That's how it goes….everybody knows. _  
  
Kurt sashayed over to Santana, who with a simple headshake and a twirl turned him about - and straight into Blaine's arms. "Hey stranger," Kurt said, taking his free hand.  
  
It was warm and soft, the curve of his thumb fitting perfectly against Blaine's, like the opposite side of a coin. It wasn't until Kurt pushed his arm back and forth that he registered they were dancing, and Blaine caught on quickly, matching Kurt step for step, shimmy for shimmy. Kurt twirled him inward one-handed, and he felt his back hit Kurt's chest, warm and solid. He twirled out again, and Blaine couldn't help but laugh at the thrill of dancing with this boy.  
  
The colors of the stage lights changed from blue to deep purple to red as the song went on to the chorus, the violin surging and the rest of the band joining in a rising wave.  
  
 _Everybody knows,  
Everybody kno-ows,  
That's how it goes,  
Everybody knows -_  
  
They shook closer together and apart again, attempting more complex movies despite their precarious drinks and the laughter from both of them. Kurt ducked his head, smiling, and raised his eyes to look at Blaine coyly.  
  
Blaine took the dare, and dipped Kurt to the dance floor, holding him carefully in one arm to avoid spilling their drinks.  
  
And as the last note held out, Blaine couldn't help but stare at Kurt, at the flush on his face somehow visible in the barlight, at the feeling of fingers pressed to the back of his neck.  
  
He ducked down closer, and -  
  
"And for our next number, we'd like to call up a dear friend of the band - Blaine Anderson, get up here, you rascal!"  
  
Kurt's hand tightened against the collar of his cardigan as Blaine gently raised them back upright, still not breaking Kurt's gaze.  
  
"Sorry," Blaine whispered, as he regretfully turned his head to the stage. "I-"  
  
"Go knock 'em dead," Kurt said, full-on blushing now, as he broke away to stand next to Santana.  
  
Blaine spent his time walking up to the stage cursing Charlotte's name, and her cat's, and everything she held dear.  
  
"Okay kiddo," she murmured to him once they were on stage. "'Happy Animal'? You up for it?"  
  
Charlotte and Blaine had come up with the mashup one night while closing at the store, both slaphappy from sheer exhaustion and forgetful as anything. They had forgotten the lyrics and changed songs halfway through, back and forth, and Blaine could only laugh at the memory.  
  
And thinking of lyrics - and of Kurt - in the crowd, watching him - made him want to sing  _this_  more than anything.  
  
"You got it, dude," he said, and she began the baseline. Grasping the microphone, he searched out in the audience until his gaze landed on Kurt.  
  
 _Here we go again,  
I kind of want to be more than friends,  
So take it easy on me  
I'm afraid you're never satisfied_  
  
Charlotte took the microphone from him, her eyebrow raised.  
  
 _Here we go again  
We're sick like animals we play pretend  
You're just a cannibal  
And I'm afraid I won't get out alive  
Oh I won't sleep tonight….._  
  
The tempo changed only slightly, and Blaine could hear the confused momentary halt of the crowd as they realized the change.  
  
 _Ohh, whatever makes you happy!  
Whatever makes you feel alive!  
Whatever makes you happ-y-y  
Whatever makes you feel alive at night  
Whatever makes you happy  
If you're a good girl tonight_  
  
The bar was full at this point, of both people and emotion, and Blaine could barely make out Kurt's swaying figure through the haze and smoke. He closed his eyes and relished in the music, feeling it rush through him.  
  
Though he no longer wanted to perform every night, it was sure as hell fun doing it for kicks.  
  
He and Charlotte traded back and forth on verses, dancing about each other on stage. Blaine dodged Ellis, who had attempted to butt in, and moved to Charlotte's other side to evade him. Ellis stared at him over Charlotte's head, but Blaine quickly pulled his head away to look into the bar proper again.  
  
The bar was crowded with people that night, the crowd flowing over from the front of the stage and out the door.  
  
He lingered over the verse -  
  
 _Hush, hush the world is quiet  
Hush, hush we both can't fight it  
It's us that made this mess -  
Why can't you understand?  
No, I won't sleep tonight…._  
  
And as his eyes lingered over Kurt, the flow of his body and the neck of his shirt which had dropped lower and lower over the course of the night.  
  
No sleep tonight,  _indeed_.  
  
***  
  
Blaine pitched forward with the ferocity of his laughter, simply astonished at the reaction he was receiving. The crowd erupted with applause at the end of their numbers, and Blaine was happy to bow his way off stage right. He returned to Mike's side, where his drink was still waiting for him, his breath heaving from exertion.  
  
"Great job, man," Mike said, clinking their glasses together in a toast. "Did you know you were doing multiple songs? I thought you were just going up for one."  
  
"Yeah, I did too," Blaine said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a bar napkin, "but I couldn't exactly leave, since Char just kept playing. I think she did it on purpose. She likes it when we have an audience." Blaine smiled over at Tina, who was already drowsily leaning into Mike's shoulder. "How's it going, sleepyhead?"  
  
"I think we're heading home soon - this one has class tomorrow, and it's already pretty late," Mike said a little apologetically.  
  
"And, uh - where's Kurt and Santana?" Blaine asked, trying not to sound too needy. He had lost track of Kurt during his third song, when Santana had dragged him over to the bar counter; Blaine was afraid he had left.  
  
"Oh, they went over to the bar for shots a little while ago and never came back," Mike said, gesturing behind him. "There was a really large line earlier, though, so they might still be waiting."  
  
Blaine worked his way through the bar to find Kurt and Santana leaning against each other, curved into each other's bodies to shield themselves from the crowd and whispering furiously to each other. Kurt was turned away from him, leaning down. As Blaine approached Santana fell silent, and Kurt followed her stare. Kurt's eyes were deep blue in the shadows of the bar, unfocused from the alcohol, but they raked up Blaine's body nevertheless.  
  
"Hi," he said as Blaine approached, more sedate than when Blaine had left him. "You did  _amazing_ , Blaine, really! I mean I knew you were good, but wow!"  
  
Blaine shrugged and looked down to his right side, unused to praise about his singing after this long. "I was just along for the ride," he said smiling. "The guys up on stage are the ones who really deserve the praise. But thanks." Their eyes met, and they shared a private smile, until Kurt had to look away to muffle a yawn. Santana caught it, and punched him in the chest with one hand as she covered her mouth with the other.  
  
"Oh, you loser," she said to him directly. "Are you really making me sleepy already? What are we, six?"  
  
"It's past midnight already, San, and I have an early meeting with Armond tomorrow," Kurt said, an adorable little squeak coming out with his next yawn. "You know I spent most of the day working on the suits for the new line; I was up all night yesterday!"  
  
"Are you two planning on heading out soon, too? Mike, Tina and I were going to head towards the metro soon."  
  
"Don't you want to stay for the end of the set?" Kurt asked, confused.  
  
"Oh, no. I don't normally stay for the whole set; I'd be here til the building closes! Honey Badger doesn't exactly plan ahead. Or write set lists. They could play until the end of time for all they cared, so long as the bar stays open. I have to open the store tomorrow, so I'm fine with heading back, too," Blaine said, ignoring Santana's obvious judging glare.  
  
Mike walked up behind him then, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Shall we?"  
  
***  
The cars of the J train were graffitied and cast yellow light, the dark night sky looking purple beyond the windows of the train car. Blaine could see the movement of cars on the streets below, slowly interlocking into the highways leaving the city. The Williamsburg Bridge was crosshatched with row after row of Xs, passing quickly across his line of vision as he looked out across the water.  
  
The city was still bright, despite the late hour - it was New York, after all. But Blaine, still used to the numb early morning of Ohio, remained entranced by the thought of all those people who were still awake and going about their lives, in bakeries and factories, looking over their children or on their way to sleep. He broke his trance, looking away from the darkness of the window to see Kurt looking at him drowsily.  
  
The yellow light of subway cars was unflattering on everyone, tinting their skin to a jaundiced tone and steeping their clothing in sepia. Kurt's eyes, though, were creased and smiling, his cheeks still rosy from the heat of the bar. His legs were crossed one over the other, and his top foot jiggled, moving against Blaine's leg on occasion. They sat facing each other next to the large glass window.  
  
"Sorry," Kurt whispered, not sounding sorry at all. Santana had curled up against Kurt's side and fallen asleep, and Mike and Tina were huddled together whispering two rows back. There were only a few other odd people on their car - a homeless man sleeping two rows back; two Hispanic mothers speaking rapidly to each other, showing off the purchases they had made that day. A businesswoman towards the back held a newspaper close to her face; Blaine could recognize the squint of someone who had forgotten her glasses.  
  
"Don't mention it," Blaine whispered back, giving Kurt a private grin and a nudge in return. He turned back to the window, and Kurt's eyes followed. "Isn't it amazing, how many people are still awake? Or are just alive, in general?" Blaine asked, rubbing his fingers against the worn plastic of the subway seat. "Ohio never felt like it was breathing. New York just feels like it's constantly humming from all the people inside of it."  
  
"Do you ever make up stories for the buildings you pass on the subway?" Kurt asked, moving a little closer. Santana shifted a little further on his shoulder, her mouth opening in silent, unconscious protest. "I mean, we see them every day; that brick one, with the Swedish flag out front, and the one with graffiti shaped like leaves all over it on the other side of the bridge. It's interesting to think of what all the people on the subway are doing, but I've always wondered what the buildings were for." He leaned his face closer to the window, his breath fogging it a little. "I think even the abandoned ones are still alive. They might not have a purpose yet, but they're still beautiful to look at."  
  
"Some city representatives might think differently," Blaine said, smiling. "All of the neglected factories are kind of an eyesore."  
  
"I definitely would have thought so when I first came here," Kurt said, his voice still low. Blaine wished they could be closer. "I thought anything not designed in the traditional modernist style was an eyesore that needed to be updated…but sometimes the empty things are beautiful, because you can think of how beautiful they'll be when they find a purpose again, when they find people to inhabit them." Blaine saw Kurt's eyes slide towards him in his reflection in the window, but his face didn't turn. "Even broken glass is beautiful sometimes."  
  
Blaine pressed his hand to the window; it was cool to the touch. He blew his breath across it and drew a lopsided smiling face in the fog. "That sounds like something you'd see in graffiti," he said after a little while, when the face was already fading. "But the good kind, that has, like, a million upvotes on Reddit."  
  
Kurt snickered a little, probably more at Blaine's pitch-honest delivery than the compliment itself - which was weak at best. Blaine wished he could make his words work right. The bourbon caused just enough of a disconnect that he kept forgetting the words he wanted to say, like how he had taken photographs of every beautiful piece of graffiti he could since he got to the city, how he had filled up an entire SD card before transferring them to his computer, or how Kurt looked gorgeous when he smiled with his teeth like that.  
  
He stayed quiet, though, everything but his eyes and his smile muted by alcohol. The steady rattle of the subway train echoed between them, and Blaine wished they were at the point where he could sit next to Kurt and curl into his shoulder, and feel the vibrations move through Kurt's body into his.  
  
The garbled sound of the announcer came overhead, stating that they had arrived at Myrtle Street.  
  
"Shit, that's us," Kurt said, suddenly urgent, quickly nudging Santana awake. He helped her to her feet, and Blaine followed, trying to chase the moment that was quickly pulling away from them.  
  
Kurt looked at him as the train slowed to a stop, his jacket pulled snug around his torso. "You were wonderful tonight," he said, his voice a little louder now. They both moved forward, a little uncertain.  
  
But the doors slid open, and both of them swiveled to see the businesswoman leaving out the other side. "I'll see you soon," Kurt whispered, his voice low again. Blaine leaned closer to hear him. "Get home safe."  
  
And with that Kurt left the train, his arm firmly enclosed about Santana's shoulders, helping her wake up as they moved across the platform.  
  
Blaine stood, watching them, as the train moved away from the station, and only moved back to his seat when he began to stumble.  
  
***  
  
The trek back to the apartment passed in both an age and a minute, the air cooling rapidly in the early-morning hours. He led Mike and Tina back to the apartment gradually, and neither let go of the other's arm from the station, the entire way up their stairs and through their front door.  
  
All the lights were off in the apartment but a lamp in the front entryway, a last-ditch attempt at stopping them from stubbing their toes on the side table. Mike and Tina moved quickly to claim the bathroom to brush their teeth, and then secluded themselves silently in Mike's bedroom, a little more awake now that they were able to be alone.  
  
Blaine took his time getting ready for sleep; he wasn't certain if Mike and Tina were going straight to bed or not, but he didn't want to find out. He stayed in the kitchen for a while, alternating between eating baby carrots and drinking water, to clean his system. He set the timer on the coffee pot, watered his plant, showered and brushed and exfoliated to the best of his still-tipsy capabilities. But he was only a little tipsy now; his mind for the most part was blessedly empty, rather than racing through the events of the evening.  
  
 _Would Kurt have kissed him…?_  
  
A wave of satisfaction and relief hit him when he finally collapsed against his pillows, his bed still made - if a little rumpled from earlier. Turning his head to the side, he stretched, luxuriating in the feeling as he reached his hand down to his boxers, scratching his fingers lightly underneath the band.  
  
Shirtless already, the night still too warm for pajamas, he ran his palm over the fabric of his boxers, soft and taut against his already-hardening cock. He closed his eyes and tilted his head down, seeking an invisible lover, burying his face fully against the pillow.  
  
But when he inhaled, he smelled -  
  
Kurt.  
  
Blaine's bed smelled like fresh linen and expensive cologne, the lingering scent of hairspray still ingrained within his sheets. He remembered Kurt, sprawled and rolling against his bed, his arms tucked above his head and his eyes half-closed in comfort.  
  
He had been here before, and the memory of Kurt was spread across Blaine's sheets.  
  
Groaning softly into his pillowcase, Blaine nuzzled his face further against it, trying desperately to follow the lingering traces of Kurt's scent. There were layers of it, all faint now, and Blaine recalled Kurt behind him at the club, breathing hot against his ear. There was jasmine there, made crisp by some sort of fruit, but also the white musk which accented Kurt's natural scent; Blaine wished that Kurt was there with him, so that he could pull him down to the bed and inhale until he learned all of Kurt's secrets.  
  
Ignoring the trill of guilt running through him, Blaine rushed to push down his boxers to his knees, and kicked them off the bed with half of the covers. His lube was within arm's reach in his nightstand, and Blaine was able to rustle around for it with his free hand blindly.  
  
He hooked his thumb around the base of cock, circling it with pressure as he opened the jar of lube on the nightstand with his other hand, spreading it across his fingers and his palm. Switching hands and stroking upward, his legs opened wider and bent at the knee as he relished in the feeling.  
  
He thought of Kurt's warm palm fitting into his, of the soft skin at the ridge of his thumb and the perfectly maintained shape of his fingernails. Wondering at how it might feel around him, he gave another muffled hum of a groan, and pressed his face back against his pillowcase.  
  
The Kurt in his mind leaned over him, smirking, his bangs falling over his forehead haphazardly. He ran his nails over the curve of Blaine's inner thigh and Blaine's hand followed, tracing back to the place where ass met thigh. He rubbed there, and spread to expose his hole to open air.  
  
Blaine caught a whiff of cedar, and the smoke that caught in Kurt's hair whenever he walked beside Santana.  
  
Kurt would stop stroking him then, tracing down to roll his balls and then further back. With his lubed hand, Blaine lightly grazed around his hole, teasing. His legs were arching up now, and he kept his cheeks forcibly spread with his opposite hand.  
  
He imagined Kurt finding him like this, wanton and wanting, and he could feel the flush spreading across his face. Kurt could press his legs back further against his chest. Could work his fingers - longer and thinner than Blaine's own - deeper into Blaine's body, opening him up more thoroughly than Blaine himself was able. Would he whisper love against Blaine's thighs, or murmur all the ways he wanted to wreck him?  
  
He had coated both of his hands in lube by now, and was stretching himself with two fingers while thumbing the slit of his cock, wet with precome.  
  
He imagined Kurt slowly fucking him into the mattress, his palms smoothing over Blaine's chest, as it snowed gently outside.  
  
Or of kissing along the line of Kurt's neck, the tendons straining with pleasure.  
  
Licking across Kurt's shoulder blades while thrusting into him from behind.  
  
Worshiping the freckles scattered across Kurt's shoulders, the faint traces of sunlight arching across his skin.  
  
The groans he could draw from Kurt as they bit and scratched their way to furious orgasm together, rutting against the wall, or the door of Blaine's apartment.  
  
Simply kissing him, and feeling Kurt begin to smile against his lips -  
  
And Blaine came with a muffled groan, his back arching and pushing his head roughly against his pillow. He panted, and felt his chest heave as he filled his physical body again, leaving the fantasy of Kurt in the stratosphere of his thoughts.  
  
He realized his thighs were sticky with lube, and his fingers spread the pearly white of his come across his abdomen in thoughtless circles. He was sweating lightly, the cool air of the room exacerbated by the heat of his chest, and he reached for the tissues on his nightstand with a rough exhale.  
  
After he cleaned himself up, and started to drift off to sleep, the dream of Kurt kissing him gently and smiling was the only thought that occupied his mind.


	7. Pumpkin Spice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience this chapter!! I know it took a long time to get here, but I think it was worth it :) And much love to the lovely Jenny and Nikki, who are the GREATEST and put up with me being me. Hope you all enjoy!

_____________

Chapter 7: Pumpkin Spice

_____________

**At 8:30 am**

**From: Kurt Hummel**

**I wanted to let you know that you were fantastic last night. I'd still love to duet sometime!**

Kurt held his phone to his lips after he sent the text, uncertain. Was it too flirty? Would Blaine pick up on the mild innuendo? Was "duet" too subtle to be even  _considered_ an innuendo?

 

He checked the clock after a few minutes of radio silence. He was already at Bettinello's for the day, and was waiting for Armond to arrive for their second Fall Meeting. His sketchbook and portfolio binder were full to brimming on the table next to him, overflowing with fabric samples and magazine clippings.

 

For some indiscernible reason, Evelina had been avoiding Kurt for the past few days, and had instead been leaving notes on his desk that he should improve on this or that portion of this sketch repertoire. They had not assigned him any construction projects, and instead had left him to his own designs. Kurt couldn't help but feel that something big was on the horizon, and anxiety fluttered like moth wings in the pit of his stomach.

 

Thankfully, Blaine chose that moment to respond to his text.

 

**At 8:40 am**

**From: Blaine Anderson**

**Thanks! And cash in for that duet any time : ) This might be a dumb question, but how are you at party planning?**

 

Kurt snorted.

**At 8:41 am**

**From: Kurt Hummel**

**Is that even a question? My galas are the talk of the city. Did you have something in mind?**

 

**At 8:41 am**

**From: Blaine Anderson**

**Mike and I drunkenly decided last night to have a Halloween party this year? Costumes required. We're looking for a decorator and I figured you might be interested!**

 

**At: 8:42 am**

**From: Kurt Hummel**

**Of course!!! What are your thoughts on the color scheme? And don't you dare say orange and black.**

 

Kurt couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved that they weren't talking about the night before, or the way they had almost made out in the middle of the bar, or the way Blaine's body felt against his, sex-starved as it was.

 

He had gone home to his apartment and jerked off almost immediately after getting inside. Though the hard-on that had presented itself so unceremoniously during Blaine's performance had dissipated by the time he was home, the hot rush of want was barely concealed beneath the surface. 

 

He knew that Blaine's singing was good - he remembered it from the day they met - but the way Blaine's gaze had lingered on his, dark and heady despite the light of the stage, sent a shiver through him.

 

Was it too soon to feel this attached? It made him nervous, how much he trusted Blaine already - with his designs, with his mother's perfume. Kurt wondered if he was ready to trust Blaine with his heart. They barely knew each other, but - but they did know each other, really.

 

Kurt knew that Blaine was born in Seattle but raised in Ohio, and that he had an older half-brother. He knew Blaine loved reality TV, and Thai food, and finding sweaters for Lemon to wear, and green tea lattes with extra honey. He knew that Blaine had been hurt in love before, and that he knew the same of Kurt.

 

He knew that Blaine was a good person.

 

But good people could still hurt you like hell, and Kurt's instincts had been wrong before.

 

He just hoped that as much as he wanted Blaine ( _his arms his eyes his hair his lips_ ) that whatever they had came naturally - that it wasn't a flash, one night and then never. He didn't want to fail at this, like he had failed at so many other things.

 

"Kurt?" Evelina asked, peeking her head out from her office. "Can you come in here for a second? Bring your work with you."

 

Kurt was startled out of his reverie, thoughts of party décor and Blaine's biceps around his waist popping like bubbles on a sidewalk. Blaine's text had distracted him, to the point that his anxiety became secondary.

 

"Yes ma'am," he said, nodding, as he gathered his materials into his arms and followed her into her office.

 

Armond was already sitting inside, mumbling quietly to himself in Italian as he gently turned the page of a sketchbook - his own. Though he only stopped on each page of the leather journal for a few moments, his focus was palpable.

 

"Alright Kurt," Evelina said, sitting regally in her high-backed maple chair. "Papa and I only wished to view your projects; it is nothing to be worried about."

 

Not relaxing in the slightest, Kurt tentatively handed over his two books - sketches and swatches - into Evelina's waiting palm. Father and daughter leaned in over Kurt's work, meticulously examining color and fabric choices without saying a word. The minutes dragged, and Kurt tried unsuccessfully not to fidget, twisting his watch around his wrist in nervous anticipation.

 

Finally, Armond cleared his throat gruffly.

 

"Fine," he said, and looked expectantly at his daughter.

 

She smiled at Kurt, and held his sketchbook open to its most recent page. "You've come a very long way, Kurt. I know that you have had trouble finding yourself artistically, especially after the Vogue incident -" Kurt winced "-but I believe you have really discovered an original style in these designs which is immensely promising. Look at the cut of this lapel." She ran her finger along the line, tracing the angles of it  with a nail. "When you compare the cut of this to your previous designs, the intersections are far more precise, and in greater harmony with the fit of the jacket. It is sleek, without being skinny or flimsy; angular without delving into punk. And your fabric choices -"

 

She flipped to the corresponding page of Kurt's swatch book, his looping script annotating each bit of fabric with notes and thoughts on the structure and seaming. Kurt's sketchbooks were meticulously organized, sourced, and color-coded; he had learned from his past mistakes.

 

The suit in question was to be made from a grey herringbone, with accents of deep red. He had also attached several plastic bags to the page, each containing a small black metal button or spike; one even held a black broach, which had been Kurt's inspiration for the piece.

 

"This suit is marvelous, Kurt; your detail is astonishing. The continuity of its design - the same startling, consistent originality which occurs throughout your work - is the reason why we want you to design with us for this year's Fashion Week."

 

Kurt opened his mouth, then closed it, twice, but still no sound emerged. 

 

"I - thank you - I - really?" he let out in a rush, his voice becoming progressively higher, his hands fluttering.

"I know that we typically do not design with others - Papa and I accent each others' styles well," she said, taking Kurt's hands in her own. "But we feel that our designs have been…stagnating, recently. A bit of intelligent daring is precisely what our next line needs, and we believe you are the designer to provide it."

 

"I - oh, thank you, both of you," Kurt said, turning to Armond for the first time in this exchange. He still looked apprehensive at the idea, his arms crossed across his chest.

 

"Listen, boy," Armond began, sitting forward in his chair. "Just because we are designing with you does not mean that this becomes the Kurt Hummel Fashion Week. Evelina believes in you, but I still hold my judgment, and I still hold - eh  _-_ _qual’è la parola per veto_?" He asked his daughter without looking at her.

 

"It's the same," she said, chuckling lightly at him. 

 

"I still hold the veto. Yes?"

 

"Ah, yes, sir," Kurt answered, his hands still captured by Evelina's. his entire body suddenly tense with nerves all over.

 

"Kurt," she said, firmly grasping his fingers with her own. "Stop worrying. I want you to submit four designs to me and Papa, sometime before November 15. I will show you what we have prepared for the show so far; you will like it, I think. Your style should fit in quite well, and I believe that you need only move a few of your designs a bit for them to fit within this show." She smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. "I am ready to see what you can really do, Mr.  Hummel."

 

***

 

Kurt had texted Blaine immediately after getting out of his meeting, and asked him to meet at the Little Fox Cafe on Kenmare.

 

Since their first accidental trip to Café Ole, Blaine had been introducing Kurt to the variety of tiny coffee shops that were scattered around their workplaces, little holes-in-the-wall that Kurt typically ignored for the rapid-fire quickness of his local Starbucks. Where Starbucks was about getting his coffee and getting out, these were more laid-back and conversation-oriented; Kurt felt like he could breathe deeply and get lost in his work there.

 

Thankfully, it was far less crowded than the first time they had come here, and Kurt found two empty seats at the café bar; he placed his bag on the second to save it.

 

"What'll you have today, friend?" the barista asked, her voice thick with an unplaceable European accent.

 

"Oh, I'm waiting just a second - I don't know yet. And my friend," he gestured to the bag, "doesn't have a regular order, so I can't order for him. I know I'll have a water, though, with lemon or mint if you have it."

 

As she moved away to fix another customer's drink, Kurt leaned deeply against the counter, cupping his jaw in his open palm. He felt… _overwhelmed_. Not stressed, necessarily, not yet, but simply overwhelmed.

 

Though they weren't one of the most prominent fashion houses in New York - not by a long shot - the Bettinellos were nevertheless very respected in their field, and they were always highly praised for the way they straddled the line between modern and traditional men's fashion, year after year. But the father-daughter pair had always been notorious for designing on their own, rather than introducing new designers into their fold; even the tailors who worked with them were kept mostly in the dark until the final designs were brought to light. Kurt had worked for them during the last Fashion Week, and he could clearly remember being chewed out by Armond day after day for not keeping the stitching of the inseams perfectly synchronized with the other, more experienced tailors -

 

_"This is not your playtime dress-up show in college anymore! This is the big time, you understand? The fault of one inseam can destroy the drape of an entire piece. Each seam must be considered, known. You must be obsessive with it. There is nothing less than perfection. There is no coddling in fashion; you know this better than most. Do it again."_

 

And now, he was meant to work on designs with Armond and Evelina - and was perhaps the first person to do so?

 

It wasn't just intimidating; it was terrifying. This was going to be his first public attempt to prove himself since the Vogue fiasco. And opportunities like this didn't come up very often in the fashion world,  _period;_ by bringing Kurt in to design with them,Evelina and Armond were taking a huge risk.

 

A few moments later, he saw Blaine enter the café out of the corner of his eye, and he beckoned him over to the counter.

 

"Hey! I thought you were just calling me over to get started on Halloween plans, but - are you okay? Did something happen?"

 

"I - the Bettinellos asked me to design with them for Fashion Week," Kurt said, only now realizing what that meant. His smile grew, and  _grew,_ infectiously, while Blaine gaped enthusiastically at him.

 

" _Kurt!"_ he exclaimed, and quickly wrapped him up in a hug.

 

Blaine was wearing an amazingly soft knit sweater, and Kurt ran his finger around the collar of it, his arms looping over Blaine's shoulders as the other man wrapped his arms around Kurt's torso. They stayed that way for a few moments too long, and Blaine squeezed at him one last time before releasing him from the hug, his hands still lingering on Kurt's sides.

 

"How are you - how? Oh my  _god,_ Kurt! That's so exciting! Will you be in Bryant Park? Are you going to -"

 

Blaine suddenly seemed to realize his hands were still on Kurt's sides, and he quickly removed them, and instead fiddled with the strap of his shoulder bag, moving it to the back of his stool.

 

"I mean - I mean. I'm really excited for you, Kurt. You're going to be  _amazing."_

"Maybe," Kurt said, worrying at the tip of his thumb with his teeth. "It's also a huge responsibility. They've never chosen to design with anyone before, let alone a nobody 23-year-old who already fell from the fashion heights once. I mean, they're taking a  _huge_ risk, and - god, I can't even think of it."

 

"Not to break up your mental breakdown, but can I get drinks for you two?" the barista asked, her smile a little crooked. "I mean, take your time, but I've found that coffee usually helps."

 

"I'll get a large soy vanilla latte, please," Kurt mumbled, his face in his hands.

 

"And I'll get the large pumpkin spice, as well as a few of those macaroons. Do you have a cinnamon one? Or raspberry?" Blaine asked, taking his wallet out of his back pocket. "Kurt, put your wallet away, this is my treat. Oh, and extra whipped cream for this guy, we've got to celebrate."

 

Kurt gingerly put his billfold back into his bag, grinning slightly; Blaine turned and looked at him apprehensively. "You do like whipped cream, right? I just remembered that hot chocolate -"

 

"I love it," Kurt said, and winked; Blaine looked down and grinned.

 

"So," Blaine said after a few moments, looking back at Kurt. "It's perfectly fine if you don't want to answer this question, but - how, exactly, did you fall from fashion heights already? You're only, what, 23? It can't be as bad as you think."

 

Kurt groaned and curled up again, hiding his face in his arms. "Oh, it was exactly as bad as I think, actually. It was the  _worst."_ He stayed silent for a few minutes, thinking, and only sat up when his drink arrived in front of him, piled high with whipped cream and cinnamon. He dunked one finger in and sucked at it, then sighed.

 

"Okay, you might as well know," he said, taking his first sip of coffee. "In high school, I originally wanted to go into musical theater - song, dance, the whole shebang. But I had my heart set on NYADA. It was there or bust, in my mind, you know? I don't know, I wasn't the smartest in high school. So my then-best-friend and I applied, and she got in. I didn't." He took another sip.

 

"Thankfully, we had applied for early admission, so I was able to shoot off a few more applications - Parsons, Eugene Lang, Pratt, CUNY. I ended up going to FIT, since, well, it had fashion in the title, and I didn't know much about the other schools I was applying to. It was…amazingly competitive, from the start. I don't know if we had a unique class, or what, but it was insane.

 

"It was made even worse by the fact that, right before Spring semester, I ended up getting a three-month Vogue.com internship, which had the potential to lead to a full-time internship, or even a job. I had this fantastic mentor, and she trusted me with all these design decisions, and I was taking home all of these folios full of new designs and articles and photoshoots and webpages and such, you know? So the designs I was making in my classes were very on-trend, and, well,  _fantastic._  But then Eric happened."

 

"Was he a boyfriend?"  Blaine asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

 

"Not mine - my friend, Rachel's. Well. I say friend. She was the one who beat me to the NYADA spot. And all through our freshman year, I was succeeding at this place that I hadn't even researched beforehand, and she rising in the ranks at NYADA, despite the fact that she thought too highly of herself to accept any sort of criticism." Kurt snorted. "Living with her became like hell. She would just practice and practice all hours of the day, and then when she asked me to critique it she would say all of my responses were  _wrong_ and that was why I didn't get in in the first place, and…well. You can see where this is going.

 

"Eric was the second boyfriend she had while at NYADA; the first one went off and slept with her teacher, or something, and before that she dated my stepbrother on-and-off. Eric didn't even go to NYADA - he went to NYU! For fashion, though he wasn't particularly good at it. And because I tried my best to get out of the apartment whenever they were there, I never realized that he was looking over my Vogue paperwork whenever I was gone. He took photos of it, copied the articles that I was writing for the website, my write-ups for recent fashion shows, everything. He even photographed some of my designs from my sketchbooks - we lived in a big studio, so there weren't any locks, you know? And Rachel just… _watched him do it_. Didn't say a word. And, when he accused me of plagiarizing  _him_ , and of taking his ideas and leaking him confidential Vogue information…." Kurt sighed. "Well, there wasn't really anything Isabelle could do but fire me. FIT put me on academic probation. The fashion school heads over at Parsons listened to me, thank god, and accepted me into their program when I decided to leave FIT, but…god, it was the worst."

 

"Wait, so - she didn't defend you?"

 

Kurt snorted. "Hardly. She confirmed everything he said about the plagiarism, so he ended up getting all the credit, and the plans I had for my freshman year fashion show were flushed in one fell swoop. He ended up taking that, too, and went on to receive prizes for  _my_ designs. It was like he stole part of me."

 

Kurt felt Blaine's hand rest atop his arm, warm against the material of his jacket.

 

"Kurt," he said, softly. "I'm really sorry you had to go through that."

 

"I am too," Kurt replied, looking up at him. "It really made me distrust everyone - for a long time. Thankfully Santana had newly moved to New York, so I was able to break my lease with Rachel and move in with her."

 

"And how about this Rachel person? Is she still with this guy?"

 

"No, he broke up with her a while later - a friend of a friend told me. But she's, well - have you heard anything about the Twilight musical?"

 

Blaine's face scrunched up, recoiling. "Why would I want to?"

 

Kurt giggled into his coffee, accidentally getting some whipped cream on the tip of his nose; he quickly moved to wipe it off, blushing a little. "Okay, thank you for making me feel better! She just got cast as Bella. I feel like I can't even appreciate the naked men in that movie now because of it."

 

"Okay, there are  _so_ many more naked men than you can appreciate than the guys in Twilight," Blaine scoffed, "but I gotta say, this girl sounds like she deserves that part," he took a rather vicious bite of macaroon, and then moaned happily at the taste of it.

 

Kurt grinned at him appreciatively. "I think that's the most vindictive you've ever sounded. Congratulations."

 

"Well, if I had to wish harm on someone, I would wish that they got cast in the Twilight musical, no matter how big of a role that's going to be. I would cast my ex-boyfriend as Edward, no question. I hope he never gets the glitter off." He then clinked his glass against Kurt's, lightly.

 

"Why the sudden burst of anger?" Kurt asked, grateful for the topic change; thinking of The Vogue Incident always made him feel like crying. "I mean, that was a while ago, right?"

 

"Yeah, we broke up - in the loosest of terms - a few months back, in February. That's what, eight months now? And he just decided to contact me on Facebook, and ask if I wanted to 'hang out.' I mean, what does he even -  _ugh._ " He took another bite of macaroon, and his face softened again. "Basically, I thought we were exclusive, and he didn't. So I broke up with him. And now he wants to hang out, like that totally excuses - ugh!! Yeah. I didn't even respond. Fuck that noise."

 

"Oh my god," Kurt said, nibbling at the cinnamon macaroon, "did you, like, find him…?"

 

"Nothing so dramatic - I just found his condoms, or lack thereof. And, when I confronted him about how a full box got emptied in two weeks, he told me that it was hardly my business who else he partied with. So yes. Douchebag." He huffed, and waved over the waitress, asking for another two macaroons.

 

"If it's any consolation, the same thing happened to me - well, something very similar. Except  _I_ thought we were boyfriends, and  _he_ didn't." Kurt snorted, and took a sip of his drink.

 

"Why is it that gay men in New York only ever want one night stands, anyway? Can't I just, like,  _date someone_ instead of hooking up with him?"

 

Kurt blinked, surprised to hear his own thoughts echoed in Blaine's words. "I know exactly how you feel. I just want to find someone, you know?"

 

"Completely," Blaine responded and, with the most peculiar look on his face, looked at Kurt for a moment, and then back down to his drink.

 

Kurt continued to look at him, at the curve of his jaw and the way his skin was still summer-tan despite the oncoming winter, the place where his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. He knew this feeling.

 

"So, ah… about this Halloween party," Blaine started, and the planning began.

 

***

 

"So what are we looking for, exactly?" Santana asked, leaning over Kurt's shoulder to peer at the lines of suits in front of him.

 

"I'm looking for inspiration," Kurt muttered in reply, flipping through the racks quickly. "For Halloween, for my designs for Fashion Week, I just need  _the suit._ The perfect suit. The parts of it are here, somewhere, I just need to piece them together," he said, pulling out a wool overcoat to examine it.

 

Santana looked at him, one eyebrow cocked. "You're going to find your perfect suit in a thrift store in Williamsburg?" she said, picking at the fabric of a nearby neon jacket, then dramatically fishing antiseptic gel from out of Kurt's shoulder bag. "God, I wouldn’t touch this hippie shit with a ten foot pole; you have no idea where it's been."

 

"I'm touching you, aren't I?" Kurt asked dryly, his sarcasm slightly undermined by the outright flinch given to a deserving shabby rainbow-checkered coat.

 

"But why are you coming here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at some hoity-toity place uptown if you're looking for your gayspiration? Your Second Coming?"

 

"I'm just starting here because it's a little bit closer to home. And because if I see something I really like, I can at least  _think_  about buying it, rather than having my bank account go into seizures about a jacket that costs more than my college education."

 

"And why look at real suits for inspiration when you could be wearing this?" she said, holding up something that appeared to be a clown suit, complete with rubber sunflower.

 

"Classy," Kurt replied tersely, and continued flipping in the racks.

 

"What's gotten into you, huh? Someone replace your lube for glue again? We're shopping, according to the loosest definition of the term. You should be prancing around like a fucking fawn right now."

 

Kurt exhaled slowly, his hand grasping at the arm of the tweed suit in front of him. "I told Blaine about the Vogue thing."

 

"All of it?"

 

"Almost."

 

Santana whistled quietly, and rubbed at Kurt's shoulders as she came up behind him. "You okay? I know you don't like talking about it."

 

"I'm fine, really," Kurt said, continuing to move through the jackets, a little more slowly now. "I just don't like telling new people about it. I feel like it makes me feel…I don't know. Like Rachel's a complete villain, or like I'm a wimp, or hyperbolic, or naïve. I mean, I know why she did what she did. That guy had more Broadway connections than Neil Patrick Harris at a Tony afterparty."

 

"That's hardly an excuse, though."

 

"No, it isn't. I mean - she tried to apologize to me, afterwards, but even that felt acted-out. I guess I just thought that after all this time I'd be more angry than sad about it…and, well, nope. Still just sad."

 

"Don't worry, babyface. You'll find your suit-muse, or whatever it is, soon enough - and then it'll be your name up in lights." She said it almost offhandedly, like it was the most evident thing in the world. Kurt still couldn't believe that she was the same person who had once mailed a dead fish to an uncooperative professor.

 

He wiped at his eyes a little when her back was turned, just to be certain she wouldn't see, before delving back into the racks. The majority of the clothes were made of cheap fabrics, faded and worn over time; thrift stores were picked through intensely, the hipsters swarming like bees to pollen.  

 

The costume section of the thrift store had several interesting buys - a pirate costume, complete with parrot; a hula dancer getup with one coconut missing. One long brown dress that had a few leaves stapled to it, which Kurt guessed was a tree. Most of the costumes - raver, cricket, Elmo - were completely uninteresting to Kurt, who loved to use Halloween as an opportunity to flex his design muscle rather than his ability to make an appropriate cultural reference.

 

There were several older costumes that struck his eye, though - a gorgeous overcoat with long coattails, a slightly beaten top-hat, a green carnation brooch that he ached to wear for himself, if only for the Victorian gay culture reference. He was mentally calculating how much room his bank account had for Halloween budgeting while skimming through a few excess suit racks at the back of the store.

 

Three racks down, Kurt found it.

 

It was an old two-button suit, small breasted and pinstriped, reminiscent of the fifties Neo-Edwardian phase but for one addition: a pattern of small silver studs and threads, woven up the sleeves and over the shoulders .

Kurt pulled the hanger off the rack and looked at it a bit closer. The construction was shoddy - the suit was obviously old, and the front too rounded. The left sleeve cuff had almost entirely unraveled.

 

But the intention was there, and Kurt was struck by the weave of the pattern, almost geometric and immensely modern in comparison to the vintage look of the suit jacket itself.

 

He stared at the suit for ten minutes, cataloguing its every success and misstep, until an unshaven man carrying three full black garbage bags full of snowsuits crossed his path and interrupted his train of thought.

 

"Santana, Santana! Come over here - I think this is it."

 

"This?" she said, lifting the hanger. "It - it's ugly. Like, our nonexistent cat barfed it up - are those shoulder pads?"

 

"Okay, yes, it's ugly - but the purple pinstripe isn't what I'm focused on. It's the designs on the sleeves, and this -" he said, running his finger over the cut of the inside of the suit. "The way this is seamed and lined is very interesting, particularly in the way that it meets the lapel -"

 

"Okay, you just successfully became a full-on nerd over a piece of fabric, and an ugly one at that. Are you going to get it?"

 

"A muse, for $19.98? Yeah, I'll take it."

 

***

 

The kitchen table was absolutely overloaded. Kurt had stretched the suit out over the length of it, the arms hanging loosely over the sides, threads dangling. Santana had been right: it was ugly, almost purposefully so. But despite that, it had already inspired three pages of sketches and small penciled-in details of cuffs and shoulder seams, shaded in gray pencil and outlined in flowing black ink.

 

None of his designs were quite there yet, though, and he decided to take a break for a few minutes to clear his head. After he turned on the kettle and took out his loose-leaf tea, he went back to his sketchbook and flipped back a few pages.

 

There, he had sketched in a variety of little doodles. Scribbled-down chemical formulas, small bottles of essential oils, even small bars of soap with designs printed on them were scattered across the page, but none of them seemed quite right for the next tattoo on Blaine's arm. He liked the idea of the formulas the best - particularly since Blaine seemed to want to go forward with the scientific part of his psychology degree - but he wasn't sure if it would mesh with the rest of his sleeve.

 

**At 2:05 pm**

**To: Blaine Anderson**

**How do you feel about chemistry?**

**At: 2:08 pm**

**To: Kurt Hummel**

**Uh…what do you mean?**

**At: 2:08 pm**

**To: Blaine Anderson**

**I'm thinking of making your tattoo design into something to do with the chemical makeup of…something. Maybe soap or lye? Or a certain smell?**

 

Kurt's phone rang in reply, and he answered it. "I suffered through organic chemistry - it's not exactly something I want to remember," Blaine said on the other line, chuckling.

 

"Hm, it was worth a shot. Do you have any other ideas of what you want? Anything you can give me? Smell is…kind of a hard thing to personify," he said sarcastically. The kettle had begun to whistle; Kurt turned it off, and put his tea to steep.

 

"I trust your judgment," Blaine said, sounding glib.

 

"I'm going to design something with a rainbow unicorn pooping glitter if you don't give me more to go on."

 

"That sounds great - show me some designs sometime," Blaine replied, chuckling. "Oh, I wanted to ask - what are your feelings on red?"

 

"What kind of red? Red is a very nonspecific color."

 

"Crimson. Maroon. Deep tones. I don't know, it's for the party décor?"

 

"I don't know how red will work in your apartment - it's mostly cool tones, plus you already have the exposed brick working for you. What's your costume?"

 

"You know I can't tell you that!" Blaine said, laughing.

 

"Okay, basic theme."

 

"My theme is…Halloween, I guess."

 

" _Basic_  theme."

 

"I don't know - science. Scientists."

 

Kurt crossed his legs and tucked his phone between his chin and his shoulder. "Interesting. So I suppose you're running with the mad scientist idea?"

 

"I suppose?"

 

"Well, why don't we bring that into the decorations? You know, bring out some dry ice, maybe some flasks, some of those glass tube-y things…"

 

"Pipettes."

 

"Yeah. Bring out the robots, too - you guys like that sci-fi stuff, right?"

 

"Oh, I have the perfect - yes! And we can do the whole brains-and-eyeballs bit -"

 

"Okay, that is completely tacky. Why not the Back To The Future type of scientist, with odd gadgets and robots, instead of the Frankenstein idea?"

 

"You've seen that movie?"

 

"Blaine."

 

"I guess the whole time and space theme would go with our costumes…."

 

"You're going as Doctor Who, aren't you?" Kurt asked, shaking his head.

 

"One, it's just the Doctor, not Doctor Who, and two, close but no cigar! How about you?"

 

"Amazingly, I haven't decided yet. I did see a few things at the thrift store today that could totally go toward Victorian dandy - hat, ascot, the whole thing."

 

"Seems appropriate," Blaine said, moving around on the other line.

 

"Doesn't fit with the theme, though - the science part."

 

"You could go steampunk."

 

"Gears, gloves, the whole shebang?"

 

"I think it'd look good on you!"

 

Kurt bit his lip to keep from smiling too hard, and cupped his phone in both hands.

 

"Victorian tailcoats make me look rather distinguished, I have to say. I'm sure a waistcoat and a pocket watch would only add to it."

 

"Naturally. I can't wait to see it! You'll look awesome, I can already tell." 

 

"Now," Kurt said, clearing his throat. "Let's talk about the guest list."

 

"Well, Mike and I have a list of Facebook folks we normally invite; we could add to it a little, then combine with any-and-all names you might come up with?"

 

"Me? But I thought -"

 

"You're our co-host, aren't you?" Blaine asked, his voice completely honest. "Besides, you're the most charming of the three of us - you should invite whoever you want!"

 

Kurt thought of rebutting - Blaine was easily the most charming man he had ever met - but thought it might sound too coy.

 

"That- that sounds good. Yeah."

 

"Good."

 

"Good."

 

There was an awkward pause for a moment, and Kurt could hear rustling on the other line.

 

"So," Blaine said eventually. "What are you thinking about for hors d'ouvres?"

 

***

"So," Kurt said, dropping the cardboard box on the counter and dusting his hands off, "I think we're almost done."

 

If Kurt was surprised at his compatibility with Blaine in one respect, it would be timeliness. And taste. He and Blaine had made a timetable for the afternoon's decorating and had, amazingly enough, gotten ahead of schedule. The open space of the Anderson-Chang apartment had been entirely cleared, the futon moved to the corner and the television moved into Mike's room. The resulting space was wide open, making room for a potential dance floor.

 

The alcohol for the evening had been poured into flasks; the neon green jungle juice Mike made was in a giant bowl, labeled "HAZARDOUS MATERIAL: DO NOT DRINK!"

 

In a flash of dramaticism, Kurt was making a yellow hazard sign out of several post-it notes; Blaine was bringing out an armful of stuff from his bedroom.

 

"We have to make sure no one runs off with these; I'd hate to lose them," Blaine said, gently placing his cargo onto the counter: a collection of tiny metal robots.   


"These are adorable!" Kurt said, picking up a red one from off the counter. "Where did you get them?"

 

"I've had them for a while - my uncle sends me them every so often, and I've made a few, bought a few…you can find them hanging out in the corners and nooks of thrift stores, sometimes."

 

"They're cute," Kurt said, pushing the lever of one to make it dance across the counter, "and very you."

 

Blaine opened his mouth a little before closing it, and smiled widely, almost bashfully. It was a little thrilling, making Blaine look that way.

 

Kurt cleared his throat, and moved to the fridge, checking that his little robot tarts and rocket candies were still intact. He popped a chocolate eyeball into his mouth, and hummed in pleasure at the taste of mint inside.

 

"I think I can safely leave the rest of the preparations in your hands," Kurt said, closing the fridge. "Don't fail me now, Anderson!" He shook the serving ladle for the punch in Blaine's direction, with a wink for emphasis.

 

"Sir, yes sir," Blaine replied, saluting jauntily, and Kurt kept up his airs as he marched to the coat rack by the door.

 

"So did you end up deciding on your costume?" Blaine asked, leaning with one shoulder against the wall.

 

"As if I'd ruin the surprise now," Kurt replied, grabbing his scarf from the rack. "I'll see you at ten!"

 

Blaine saluted him again as he left, and Kurt hated to have to close the door behind him.

 

The air was brisk on the walk back to his apartment, and Kurt was glad again of his choice to include a coat with his costume. A cold front had swept in, beckoning November onwards, and some of his more risqué costumes of Halloween past might not have held up against it.

 

Blaine had reassured him, early on, that he and Mike could finish up the party planning and music selection, and that there was no need for him to be stuck there in-costume the whole day; he could arrive fashionably late with the rest of the crowd.

 

(He wouldn't come late, of course - he didn't want to miss a moment of Blaine in party-mode now that they had been drunk together several times. Everything felt…promising.)

 

Kurt had brought a bagful of last-season summerwear into the thrift store, and had traded it for a costume that he would probably wear year-round. The overcoat was a rich red, with tails running down to the backs of his knees. The costume was made of layers and layers: breeches and worn-in boots, gauntlets with gears winding across the top and sides, and a white starched shirt.

 

Perhaps best of all was a piece that had already been in Kurt's closet: rather than a traditional waistcoat, he wore a black men's corset, with deep gold thread woven across the edge, and gold buttons down the front.

 

He pulled the strings taught on his own - Santana would be ruthless with it, and he didn't want to pass out in the middle of the party. The final touch was the green carnation pin, touched with gold, which he pinned to his corset.

 

"You're coming tonight, right?" Kurt asked loudly, his voice ringing through the open air of the apartment.

 

"At some point, maybe," Santana called from the bathroom. "I've got quite a few appearances to make tonight, rainbowface - it's the best night of the year, after all."

 

"You know, I know you well enough to know when you want to quote Mean Girls; really, go ahead."

 

 "You know how they say that Halloween is the one night of the year when girls can dress like sluts and no one can say anything?" she said, emerging from the bathroom, fixing the pearls about her neck. "Well, I'm about to reap the benefits of that."

 

"You're playing that game where you try and turn straight girls, aren't you?"

 

"It's not turning, it's  _awakening,_  Priscilla, and they  _love_ me for it."

 

"Didn't you say virgins were no fun?" Kurt asked, chuckling.

 

"That only applies to men - they think they know everything before they even try. But women," she said, snapping her fingers once, "women are happy to  _learn._ "

 

"You're like every homophobic parent's nightmare, aren't you?"

 

"You know it," Santana grinned, and straightened her dress; her hair was already put up in the perfect Holly Golightly bun, and her cigarette holder was lying on the kitchen table with her black clutch.

 

"So Kurt, you gonna go for it tonight? Show that soap guy what a beast you really are?" she asked, walking over and straightening his jacket for him.

 

"Oh, well, I - maybe, but probably not. Most people don't get together with the people they hook up with on Halloween."

 

"That's hardly a reason not to hook up -"

 

"I just don't want to send the wrong message."

 

"So what, you think that he's gonna make out with your face and then ignore you?"

 

Kurt shifted uncomfortably. "I mean-" he started, and stopped, rubbing his knuckle over the bridge of his nose. "It's not that I think Blaine would do that, but - it's happened before."

 

Santana's eyes softened, and she put a hand on his arm. "I don't know Blaine all that well, but I think he deserves a little more credit than that. He already looks at you like the sun orbits around you, and you did trust him with your mom's perfume bottle when you gave it to him last week." 

 

"Yeah, well, I'm just tired of people using booze to never talk about their feelings."

 

Santana laughed and started to move back to the bathroom. Her dress fell halfway above her knees, and was shaped perfectly around her curves; though Kurt wasn't interested in the body underneath, he had to appreciate the craftsmanship.

 

"Is it really so odd that I want some commitment first?" Kurt asked, following her towards the bathroom and leaning against the door.

 

" _Yes,_ " Santana replied, opening her eyeshadow case. "That shit isn't cut and dried anymore - you get a boyfriend by hooking him and telling him so. No one's gonna come a'calling and ask your dad if he can take you to the drive-in, yannow."

 

Kurt pouted. "Well, it's not too much to want a gentleman to ask me on a date…"

 

"You're doing the whole Disney Princess bit, waiting for an extinct, made-up breed of man to come and sweep you off your feet," she said, applying another coat of eyeshadow as she spoke. "It's like waiting for a dodo bird, or the Loch Ness monster. Nessie is your dream man."

 

"Shut upppp," Kurt mumbled, tilting his head back with a thump.

 

"You want to make out with him, don't you?"

 

He sighed wistfully. "I really want to see what his stubble feels like."

 

"So go for it, and ride him off into the sunset or whatever," she said, waving him off. "And stop your whining already. I have my first pre-pre game to get to."

 

She waltzed past him to grab her purse off the kitchen counter and, turning, pecked him on the lips. She held up a finger to them as he squawked in protest.

 

"I swear to god, if that's the only kiss you get tonight, I'm going to replace your shampoo with black hair dye. You'd look washed-out for  _days._ "

 

She turned, and blew him a kiss as she walked out and shut the door behind her, leaving him gawping in the kitchen.

 

***

By the time he arrived at the party, a decent crowd had already gathered. Blaine had put blue lightbulbs in all the lamps, so the room is cast in a cool blue light - straight lines of pixie lights lined the walls above. The punch was bubbling, the dry ice casting smoke down from atop the refrigerator - Mike had painted glowing eyes on the Styrofoam box it came in, so it looked like a robot whose head was smoking.

 

And Blaine was wearing a bowtie. A bowtie and a lab coat. And suspenders, which made Kurt's mouth dry up for no reason in particular.

 

"Kurt!" he heard, before Blaine's warm body was pressed up against him, gripping tight. Blaine smelled like fruity alcohol and fresh mint, like he had just eaten one of Kurt's chocolates. Most of all though was his  _warmth_ , and the feeling of Blaine's face buried in his neck was already almost too much.

 

"Hey," Kurt replied, rubbing his hand over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine only slightly released him, and he's just  _happy,_  beaming up at Kurt with flushed cheeks and shining eyes behind wide-rimmed glasses.

 

"You're here!" he exclaimed, trying to be heard over the beat of the music. "And you look…wow.  _Wow._ You really took the steampunk suggestion to heart, huh?"

 

He ran a finger over Kurt's pin, over the fine wave of a petal, and smiled.

 

"Sir, are you trying to tell me that you are a  _homo-sexual_?" he asked, leaning in close. He winked exaggeratedly. "Nice reference."

 

"Almost as obvious as a ring on my thumb or a hanky in my pocket," Kurt replied. He was still distracted by Blaine's hands on his sides. "So who are you, specifically?"

 

Blaine pushed his safety goggles over his thick-rimmed glasses, and retrieved two test tubes from his pockets. "Guess now:  _Science Rules._ "

 

Kurt curled over in laughter, too giggly to miss Blaine's hand dropping from his waist.

 

"You're Bill Nye the Science Guy? I mean - what -"

 

"We're kind of a set," Mike said from behind him.

 

Kurt turned to find Mike in a blue dress printed with rocket ships, a curly ginger wig perfectly styled to cover his hair. A plastic iguana was haphazardly perched on his shoulder, bound there with duct tape.

 

Kurt reeled back against Blaine's shoulder, laughing wildly, his eyes closed tight. "You're - you're - oh my god, where did you even get a Ms. Frizzle dress in a men's size?" Kurt asked between giggles - his face was pitched against Blaine's shoulder, now.

 

"And the - iguana -  _hahahaha_ -" he stopped again, laughing too hard to continue.

 

"I got an extra large and had Tina tailor it for me," Mike said, doing a small twirl in place. "We wanted to go with the whole time travel, scifi theme, while still paying homage to the 90's."

 

"That's what Halloween is for!" Tina exclaimed, emerging from the kitchen in a white Power Ranger costume, with a drink in each hand.

 

"Wasn't the Asian chick the Yellow Ranger?" a guy asked her as she walked past; his hair fell lank over his face.

 

"I'm the White Ranger because I believed in my  _dreams_ , Neilson, and I wasn't a complete killjoy at another person's party!" she called behind her, not even bothering to look at him. She handed Mike a glass of the bright green alcohol-and-juice (but mostly alcohol) punch.

 

"C'mon, let's get you a drink," Blaine said, and pulled him along to the kitchen.

 

Kurt didn't know anyone there yet - he had told his own friends that the party started at 10:30, to make sure he would be there when they arrived. Blaine skipped over the jungle juice and instead grabbed a dark bottle from behind the Styrofoam dry ice container.

 

"Nothing like dry ice to dissuade drunks from getting the good stuff," he said, pouring out two shot glasses worth of pineapple rum. Then he reached into the fridge, then, and grabbed two of the jello shots Kurt had made the day before.

 

"Cheers!" Blaine said, lifting his glass to clink it with Kurt's before swallowing the first shot of rum down. They then quickly ate the jello shots, the taste of the cool substance pleasing after the burning liquid.

 

"You've got to catch up with the rest of us," Blaine said, smiling adorably. "Go ahead and pick your poison!"

 

Kurt mixed himself a Madras, using vodka one of the flasks that had amassed near the jungle juice; he stole an orange out of the fruit bowl for fresh juice, and to garnish his glass.

 

Blaine started to slowly introduce him to his NYU friends - an eclectic sort, who were all interesting enough, but who were introduced in such volume it was unlikely that Kurt would remember a single name in the morning.

 

A group of ex-literature students were discussing the identity of James Patterson's likely ghostwriters, and the business grads had already overtaken the speaker system, and were rowdily dancing in the living room to dubstep remixes.

 

Kurt felt bad that Blaine was still trailing him; it was his party, after all.

 

"You don't have to stay with me if you don't want to," Kurt said into Blaine's ear over the din. "I've done the awkward party small talk before, I promise."

 

"I like being with you - I mean -" Blaine looked Kurt in the eye. "I want to stay with you. If that's okay."

 

Kurt felt his heart swell - despite being in a room full of his closest friends, Blaine wanted to stay with  _him._

"C'mon," Kurt said, nudging him with an elbow. "Who's next on the receiving line?"

 

There were a few familiar faces - Kurt knew them from local productions he had participated in across the city, as well as gallery openings and groupons - he even recognized a Starbucks barista from near his apartment.

 

If this night had proved anything, it was that Blaine really was one of the nicest men he had ever met - he knew what was happening in the lives of every guest, what drinks to bring them, what they hoped to be when they got a "real job." He knew which ones to avoid, which ones were Mike's friends, and who had just come along for the ride.

 

"This is Kurt Hummel," he'd say, when giving introductions. "You're going to be hearing his name again soon - he's the most talented fashion designer I've ever seen, and he's an awesome cook to boot!"

 

Kurt wondered, at first, if he was talking him up on purpose. It didn't take him long to realize that Blaine talked  _everyone_  up - because he was just that proud to be friends with them.

 

"You make it sound like I'm the next Alexander McQueen or something!" Kurt said, his body tilting forward as he laughed. "Jasper Conran, perhaps, but not McQueen!"

 

"Uh, yeah, sure," Blaine replied jokingly, nudging Kurt in the side. "We'll see."

 

"So how long have you two been dating?" a blonde engineer whisper-shouted in Kurt's ear. "Blaine's a great guy!"

 

"Ah," Kurt said, and there was an awkward pause - Blaine had apparently heard her as well, and was staring rather intently at his drink. Kurt looked down at the remains of his own, now mostly watery cranberry juice, and downed it in a single gulp.

 

"I'm pretty warm," Blaine said, pulling at the lapel of his lab coat. "I think I'm going to take this off - do you need another drink, Kurt?"

 

"Yeah, and - y'know, this coat is pretty heavy in its own right. I'll go with you."

 

They rushed in silence back to the kitchen, and Kurt poured himself another drink, this time with considerably more alcohol. "I'm going to go put this on the rack," he said to Blaine, and started off in that direction.

 

"Hold on - shit, it's Ellis," Blaine said, sounding distressed. "I thought I asked Charlotte not to bring him! God, now I'm gonna be dodging him all night…."

 

Charlotte had just walked in in full military regalia, with the majority of her band in tow. They were standing just in front of the door, talking, and were  _completely_ blocking the coat rack.

 

"Wait," Kurt said, putting a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "I have an idea to get this guy off your back."

 

Blaine looked at him, pleased. His expression quickly turned to shock, however, when Kurt dropped himself over him and nuzzled his nose in the crook of Blaine's neck. He faked some stumbling, and led Blaine rather obviously back to his room. Ellis's expression of shock as Kurt shut and locked the door behind them was more pleasing than Kurt wanted to admit.

 

"You," Blaine said, "are a genius." He moved to strip off his lab coat, placing it over his chair gently. "Here, I'll hang your coat; I don't want it to get damaged."

 

The only light in the bedroom was streaming in from the window, glancing across Blaine's jaw and the tendons of his neck. Kurt stuttered, then removed his own overcoat. The temperature difference was immediate - he felt a shiver run down his spine as he handed the coat over to Blaine.

 

Blaine was rolling up his sleeves to the elbow - but there was some sort of design running along the inside of his forearms, different from the tattoos hidden by his shirt.

 

"Did- did you get new tattoos?" Kurt asked, reaching towards them absentmindedly. Blaine fumbled with the lamp by his bed.

 

"No, they're -" the light turned on -"uh, henna. Tina helped me."

 

Blaine looked  _devastatingly_ handsome, and Kurt inhaled sharply as he took him in. It was the first time Kurt had seen Blaine in formal wear, and the image of him in a shirt and suspenders and a  _bowtie,_  looking sweaty and rumpled from the party, seemed to Kurt like something out of a photoshoot for a magazine. Or a wet dream.

 

His sleeves were rolled up to reveal two words, illuminated and framed on each arm, brown ink seeped into skin:

 

                                     _SCIENCE RULES._

"You are the biggest nerd I've ever met, you know that?" Kurt asked, running his finger lightly over them. He felt Blaine shiver.

 

A little spark lit in the back of Kurt's mind at the image of the brown ink, though - an idea for his own designs, back at home in his sketchbooks. Perhaps that would be a way to continue the patterns of a design onto a person's skin…?

 

"Kurt, is that a corset?" Blaine asked, his eyes wide, when a knock came at the door.

 

"Blaine Devon Twinkletoes Anderson, you ran off without saying hi to me, so stop macking for five minutes and come give me a hug, capiche?" Charlotte called through the door. Kurt and Blaine looked at each other for a long moment, uncertain. Finally, Blaine opened the door, clearly regretful.

 

Charlotte ushered them out the door cheerfully. "I was waiting for this one! Smooth moves, Anderson. Drinks on me!" she called, and Kurt was torn between hiding back in Blaine's room and informing Charlotte that it was all Blaine's alcohol to begin with.

 

They made it to the bar - and Kurt had topped off his drink - when he turned to see Michal Carson by the front entryway.

 

"Oh my god," Kurt said, and Blaine turned his head to look at him, probably because of the utter  _despair_  in his tone.

 

"What?" he asked.

 

"How do you know Michal?" Kurt whispered urgently, receeding towards the back of the kitchen.

 

"Who?"

 

"The French boy with the pitch perfect haircut who thinks Halloween costumes are plebian, that's who," Kurt replied in a frustrated whisper.

 

"Okay, yeah - Mike knows him from the dance classes he teaches. I think he gave a general invitation to his ballet class." Blaine looked at him, concerned. "Are you okay?"

 

"He's my ex. Well, kind of."

 

"How is it 'kind of'…?"

 

"You know when you sleep with and go on dates with and kiss one guy, for three months, thinking he's your boyfriend, only to find out he's not…?"

 

"Oh." Blaine said, and he looked back at Michal, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

"Here, c'mon," he said, and took Kurt's hand and led him across the dance floor. "You saved me from Ellis; I'll save you from this guy, okay?" He looked at Kurt, his eyes wide and honest. "May I have this dance?"

 

"The pleasure would be all mine," Kurt said, and took his other hand as they turned towards each other, hiding in the corner of the living room.

 

Blaine's palms were warm - smaller than Kurt's own, but thicker and more sturdy. Between Kurt's own long fingers, Blaine's fit perfectly as they interlocked, pale against tan.

 

Kurt didn't recognize the music - the singer had an almost country voice, and even thought the song was upbeat and modern, Kurt could have sworn he heard a tambourine. By the time Kurt had started dancing to it, it had already finished.

 

The next song was a little more his pace, as was the third song, and the fourth. They spun and jived, and watched Mike do his thing for one song all while dancing closer and closer, laughing with their eyes wide open.

 

Kurt took the leap and grabbed Blaine by the waist partway through the fourth song, their dancing slowly turning to grinding as the tempo quickened and the next song began. Blaine shifted his hand across to the small of Kurt's back, and Kurt stifled a delayed gasp as the fingers of his left hand brushed across the side of his ribcage.

 

They moved together in rhythm, legs between legs, and Kurt shuddered and let his head fall to Blaine's shoulder at the feeling of their hips pressing together as they rocked back and forth.

 

[ _I can swear I feel the beating of a cold, cold heart_ ](http://youtu.be/BJzMl5AHfu4)

_Or there's a chill, 'cause it's showing through your clothes_

_And as far as I can tell, nothing underneath your v-neck tee-_

And Kurt could hear Blaine singing against his neck, low into his ear -

 

  _I'm begging, I'm beggin', I'm beggin' you please, now_

And dropped a kiss there, before growling -

 

          _Tell me that you want me,_

_Tell me that you need me,_

_Tell me 'cause I'd like to know_

He ground against Kurt harder, in small circles, his hands inching lower. 

 

_Won't you stop teasing me,_

_Won't you take it easy,_

_Tell me 'cause I'd like to know_

_You're never gonna go -_

 

And with that, Kurt grabbed Blaine by the back of his curls and kissed him. 

 

Blaine groaned against his lips and opened his mouth to the press of Kurt's tongue, both of his hands moving to cup at the small of Kurt's back. Kurt hummed in appreciation and sucked Blaine's lower lip into his mouth, pulling gently - a little harder when Blaine gasped at the feeling.

 

Blaine replied in kind, licking into Kurt's mouth and under his bottom lip, frantic and deep. Kurt felt dizzy with it - Blaine tasted like rum and lime, like the chocolate he had eaten out of the fridge. They were slowly moving - back, back against the wall, in the far corner of the living room. Kurt leaned against it for support; his knees were shaking. He tilted his head back further and knocked Blaine's glasses askew; only pulling away slightly, Blaine quickly took them off and put them in his back pocket.

 

Blaine ran his hands up and grasped at the fabric of Kurt's corset. He pushed his fingers underneath it, exploring, and he tentatively pulled at one of the strings. Kurt gasped at the sudden increased tightness, slight as it was. Blaine took his chance to kiss along the line of Kurt's jaw, sucking at the spot where it met his neck. His breath was hot against Kurt's skin as his edged his teeth over the tender flesh there, and Kurt pressed his cheek against the wall, his mind buzzing.

 

He was lightheaded - his neck was sensitive, a direct line to his cock, and he felt himself grow fully hard. The party around them had been completely muffled in his mind, nothing more than noise and the cool light behind his eyelids and Blaine's mouth, his  _mouth._

 

Blaine mumbled something indistinct, barely more than a growl between Kurt's teeth.

 

"Mm?" Kurt hummed, pecking over Blaine's lips again, closed-mouthed and rapid.

 

"Your mouth tastes  _awesome_ ," Blaine murmured, slipping his tongue against Kurt's once more, then breaking away. "I knew it would. I've wanted to do this for so long,  _Kurt-_ "

 

Kurt moved quickly, and flipped the two of them, so that he was standing over Blaine, whose back was pressed against the wall. Blaine looked up at him, wide-eyed, his lips still glistening with moisture, and Kurt leaned down to suck his lower lip into his mouth.

 

"My turn," he whispered, as he pecked the curve of Blaine's chin, the angle of his jaw, his Adam's apple. He suckled at the tendon there, running his teeth across it; he knew that Blaine's earlier efforts would have left marks along his collarbone, and wanted to leave some reminders of his own.

 

Blaine was  _vocal_ , his small whimpers and moans just adding fuel to the fire. He responded to Kurt's every gesture, every press of his fingertips; he moaned softly when Kurt ran his fingers through his curls, and Kurt had to kiss him again to quiet him.

 

Blaine kissed like he was drawing breath, like he needed Kurt's kiss to survive. It was four months of restraint breaking free, and Kurt could feel his heart practically beating out of his chest as his mind finally caught up with the rest of his body.

 

He broke away without quite realizing, their lips parting with a soft  _smack_. Blaine's eyes were still closed, his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, and Kurt moved his hand up to cup at his jaw, to run his thumb across the swell of his lip. Blaine's eyes opened.

 

His eyes were dark and overwhelmed, the whites of his eyes turned blue from the reflection of the lamps. Rather than layers and layers of soap and glycerin he smelled like  _himself_ , and Kurt buried his nose in Blaine's neck and simply inhaled. He traced his thumb underneath one of Blaine's suspenders, feeling the threads of the shirt underneath smooth beneath his fingertip.

 

He kissed at the spot where Blaine's collarbone peeked out from his shirt, up the tendon of his neck, over the spot where purple hickeys were already blooming. The place behind his ear, the top of his cheekbone, the raise of his brow, the tip of his nose - Kurt wanted to explore them all.

 

He finished at Blaine's mouth, pressing sweetly, almost chastely against it, for all that his heart was racing. Blaine grinned into it, his body slack against the wall and his thigh between Kurt's.

 

"Ah," Kurt said as they pulled apart. "Is this -?"

 

"Kurt!" a voice called from the other side of the room, and both of them turned to follow it.

 

Santana was standing at the doorway of the apartment holding up two bottles of Jäger, which she had apparently procured somewhere earlier in her evening. She obviously couldn't see them beyond the crowd, and instead was yelling into thin air.

 

"It's Halloween! Come get your shots, bitch!" she shouted, hoisting the bottles up further. She was drunk enough to make herself heard over the ruckus of the party, and most of the partygoers cheered with her.

 

Kurt turned to Blaine, uncertain of what to do next. Blaine just blinked at him in reply, still a little stunned, but he gradually stood up, Kurt's hands falling to his sides.

 

"Uh," he started, "I guess-"

 

"I mean-"

 

"You-"

 

Blaine looked at him, then back to the party. "I guess we have to…get back to them, huh?"

 

Kurt buried his head into the crook of Blaine's neck again, ignoring Santana's shouts. His head was still swimming, and the texture of Blaine's shirt against his swollen lips sent sparks up his spine.

 

"Do we have to?" Kurt mumbled.

 

"I think otherwise she's going to come looking for us," Blaine said. His lips were pressed to Kurt's forehead, and his nose nestled in his hair, inhaling softly.

 

"Yeah. Right," Kurt replied, biting his lip. "Look, Blaine -"

 

"I really don't want to go over there," Blaine said, looking at him, his gaze shifting between his eyes and his lips.

 

"Me neither, but if we have to…" Kurt said, and dropped another kiss to Blaine's neck. "We should talk about this, though."

 

"Mmm," Blaine said, pecking him again. "We will."

 

They held hands as they walked towards the source of the shouting , and Kurt simultaneously wanted to drag Blaine back to his room and punch Santana in the boob.

 

"Kurt! Kurt. You need to take a shot with me. Ooh,  _impressive_ hickey. Up high, Anderson; you finally got the balls to take the plunge! Sorry for interrupting your mackin', boys. I didn't think you had it in you!"

 

Santana held her hand up above Blaine's head; he simply stared at it for a moment, before tapping it lightly. Kurt hung his head and blushed; this was the exact  _opposite_ of how he wanted this to go.

 

Except for the kissing.

 

Charlotte and the rest of her band were still hanging out by the door; only Pearson, the drummer, was mixing herself a drink at the counter.

 

"Blaine, I think Ellie wanted to ask you somethin'," Pearson said quietly, gesturing behind her to the violinist. Blaine looked at Kurt for a moment, and almost looked like he was reaching for Kurt's hand, before hesitating.

 

"I'll just be a second," he said quietly, and walked off, glancing behind him every few moments.

 

Kurt followed Santana instead, and took his shot of the foul-tasting drink, and cursed whoever thought putting liquorice in liquor was a good idea. He tried not to think about Blaine, or how they needed to  _talk_ , or how his lips felt.

 

"You're getting that mopey doe-eyed look again," Santana said, raising her glass in his direction. "Don't worry; your boy will be back soon."

 

"I don't know if he's my boy yet," Kurt mumbled into his drink - now just straight cranberry juice and ginger ale; he needed to clear his head. The party had grown while he and Blaine had been missing; most of the jungle juice had been drained from the punch bowl, and the flask labeled "vodka" was entirely empty.

 

"Don't be silly. You've got that boy hook, line, and sinker - it's just a matter of reeling him in," she said, downing another shot. She was already fairly drunk; the fact that she was wobbling on her heels was a strong indicator. "Sorry about interrupting you, though - I didn't know you were gettin' it on over there."

 

"I'll forgive you eventually."

 

"Good. Now,  _if_ you don't mind," she said, handing him her glass, "I think it's time for my next awakening."

 

Kurt sighed, but knew she was too far gone to realize he was pissed at her. "You go get those straight girls, honey."

 

"And you go reel that fish in!" she said as she walked backwards towards the crowd, miming using a fishing rod. When she turned around, she almost immediately went after a slim redhead in a kitten costume.  She reminded Kurt faintly of Ms. Pillsbury - before he realized what Santana was about to do, and shook his head to try and rid himself of the image.

 

He could see Blaine standing by Mike's bedroom door, talking to Ellis - whose back was turned to Kurt. Though he was trying his best to keep up the conversation Kurt could tell that Blaine's glance kept slipping towards him - it was the way his lips turned up in the light, his eyes got a little wider, before he was jerked back into the conversation again.

 

Though Kurt knew it wasn't Blaine's fault, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration. Kurt knew Blaine was a pretty nice guy, but didn't he know how to turn someone down? How to halt an unwanted crush? Or did he just wait until that person pursued him to an uncomfortable level, only to freeze like a deer in their headlights?

 

Probably.

 

"Kurt, I didn't know you knew Mike!" a voice said from beside him, flirty and tipsy with just a hint of-

 

"Desperation." Kurt mumbled, pouring whatever flask was nearest to him into his drink. "Hello, Michal. I know Mike through his roommate."

 

"Oh, the good-looking one?" Michal asked, gesturing with his drink towards Blaine, who was looking over at Kurt with increasing levels of discomfort. "He's nice, but a bit too rugged-looking for me, don't you think? However…" He fiddled with the strings at Kurt's corset, before Kurt jerked away.

 

"Not interested."

 

Michal smirked. "But I've hardly said anything -"

 

"And that's all that needs saying. Santana!" She whipped around, glaring, her mouth in a definite pout.

 

"You'll have to hold off on this one for now; I think it's time for us to go."

 

Kurt left Michal and his last-ditch effort to get laid by the punch bowl, and marched past Blaine and into his bedroom. He was only partway through putting his coat back on when Blaine joined him, closing the door behind him abruptly.

 

"Sorry," he whispered, sounding genuinely distressed. "I'm not very good at this. I've been trying to tell him that I'm not interested, but - I'm not very good at this," he repeated, rubbing his hand over the hickeys that spanned his neck.

 

Kurt's expression softened. "Can we talk?" he asked, his voice much smaller than it had been in the hallway.

 

"Of course. Now, or -"

 

"Tomorrow?" Kurt asked. "I mean, I would love to now, but we've both been drinking -"

 

"And it would be better sober," Blaine agreed. "Besides, I - I really do need to let Ellis down once and for all. Enough is enough."  

 

"So tomorrow," Kurt said, and pecked Blaine on the cheek, his lips lingering. When he pulled away, Blaine was gazing up at him with an indescribable look on his face.

 

Finally, Kurt pulled away and sighed, opening the door and walking back into the hall. He knew that it was still relatively early, but he wanted to go home, to have some time to think to himself. Taking Santana by the arm, he led her out of the apartment; the forcefulness of his walk was enough to silence her protests.

 

The last thing Kurt saw as he walked out was Blaine, his hand cupping his cheek, his eyes wide open and gleaming. 


End file.
